


I Wanna B Urs

by spelling_error



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assassin Bucky Barnes, BAMF Tony Stark, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dark Tony Stark, Evil Bucky Barnes, Evil Tony Stark, Extremis Tony Stark, Getting Together, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder Husbands, Not Canon Compliant, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Protective Tony Stark, Psychopaths In Love, References to Arctic Monkeys, Serial Killer Tony Stark, Serial Killers, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Top Tony Stark, Villain Tony Stark, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, dark bucky barnes, in a murderous way, not team Cap friendly, not wanda maximoff friendly, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25406254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelling_error/pseuds/spelling_error
Summary: In which Tony Stark really is as evil as everyone says he is, the Winter Soldier is a millennial who listens to the Arctic Monkeys, and why anyone decided to put the guy with 70 years worth of assassinations listed on his resume on non-lethal missions is beyond either of them.Either way though, Winter’s getting a promotion.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 157
Kudos: 749





	1. Some Want to Kiss, Some Want to Kick You

**Author's Note:**

> Not team cap friendly and Tony is a villain, in case that wasn't clear! Enjoy! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Brianstrom by the Arctic Monkeys

There is something exhilarating about fighting Iron Man, Winter has come to find. Of all the villains that Rogers makes them fight, it always comes back to Iron Man.

Rogers and Winter made him, after all.

Iron Man the villain, that is.

Iron Man the superhero was born long ago, but the villain? That was on Rogers. That was on Winter too, he supposed.

Being the reason that Tony Stark had gone off on a killing spree and turned to a life of villainy wasn’t what made fighting him so exhilarating though.

It was the chase, Winter thinks.

It was getting caught, getting found, and knowing that it was because Stark got bored and decided he wanted to toy with them that day.

That was the exhilarating part.

To Stark, it was a game. To Winter, to Rogers, to the rest of them—it was a fight for their lives.

Stark has been playing a deadly game of cat and mouse with Rogers and his lot of vigilante heroes ever since Stark made his first appearance six months after Siberia.

He’s been mocking them.

Slowly closing in. He’s also been breaking down Rogers’ resolve in a way Winter didn’t know was possible.

It started when Stark killed the secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, and then broadcasted it across the globe with the message:

_Steve, Spangles, Capsicle,_

_This is what a world without oversight looks like._

_-You Know Who I Am._

The body was found an hour later with mistletoe shoved in his mouth.

After that, Stark went on in a similar fashion. The US was without a president or vice president for three weeks because of Stark. He always left messages for Rogers, and mistletoe at the crime scene. He was more a serial killer than a villain for the first few months.

He killed the supposedly already dead Director Fury, Sam’s old boss from the VA, the manager at the nursing home that Peggy Carter had spent her last years in. Anyone with a supervisory role that mattered even the slightest to Rogers and his vigilantes were turning up dead with mistletoe in their mouths and a message to Steve broadcasted all over the planet.

Understandably, people were starting to turn on Rogers.

Winter also thought it was worth noting that Stark Industries was doing _great_. He thought it might have something to do with the novelty of owning products made by the worlds most feared man alive, and knowing those devices would be worth even more once someone managed to take him down.

If that ever happened.

Winter’s not sure anyone could take Stark down. He knew _he_ couldn’t. Knew Rogers couldn’t, knew Wilson, Romanoff, and Barton couldn’t.

Maximoff was gone.

They don’t know how. Just know that there was mistletoe left in her bed at their safehouse a year ago and no one’s seen her since.

That’s how Winter knows that Stark is just _playing_ with them.

Stark likes to play. Like they are puppets on a string.

It’s okay though, because Winter likes to dance.

Stark is the only villain they fight that is a challenge, and even still—Winter knows that if Stark wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

That fact is highlighted pretty damn well on his current mission.

Rogers has them taking out a Hydra cell. Winter is not _allowed_ to fight Hydra. Not after the last time when Winter had _maybe_ killed someone.

Rogers went by a very strict ‘no killing’ policy, and Winter… wasn’t great at that. Especially when it came to Hydra.

So here he was, in a snipers perch, bored out of his mind and half listening to the team over the comms, half listening to music on his phone, half watching for Hydra agents making a break for it, half cleaning dirt out of his nails, and completely cursing out Rogers and his stupid morals when Iron Man lands almost silently on the rooftop behind him.

Winter’s lying prone when he hears the soft crunch of gravel behind him, and he’s rolling onto his back with his Glock trained on the newcomer in seconds.

Doesn’t much matter when he’s staring down the Iron Man gauntlet.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He’s been made.

“Is this the _Arctic Monkeys_?” Iron Man asks.

Winter knows Stark’s chatty, and he often has used that to delay his own death, so he falls back on that now.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “You a fan?”.

Iron Man shrugs. The new armour is sleek, it fits Stark like a second skin—nothing like the tin can he wore a year ago in Siberia. It allows for more fluid motions. Stark is expressive with his body.

“I like their sound,” he agrees.

Winter doesn’t have time to think of a response before the repulsor is charging up and he has half a second to roll out of the way and onto his feet.

“This doesn’t seem like a fair fight,” Stark muses, “Where’s the fam?”.

Winter gets a few shots off at the weaker point in the armour but it does little more than make Stark take a single step back.

“They’re little busy, sorry to disappoint,” he says.

Another repulsor blast has Winter jumping back and finding the edge of the building a lot closer than he’d like.

“Aw, Bucky-bear, you could never disappoint me,” he coos, “I just wanna make this last, and darling, you make that very difficult,” he leers, an obvious innuendo.

“Winter,” he finds himself correcting automatically. It’s ingrained in him now, with how often he has to correct Steven ‘sorry-it’s-just-I’ve-known-you-so-long’ Rogers in the run of a day.

“Winter,” Iron Man repeats, tasting it on his tongue.

Winter ducks down and around him before Stark can get another shot off, but he’s brought up short by the other edge of the building now, and Stark turns dizzyingly fast.

Winter can usually hold his own against Iron Man, but he wasn’t in a position when Stark arrived to be able to fight off an assailant as skilled as him. Winter was expecting stupid Hydra goons, not the villain of the goddamn century.

It doesn’t escape Winter’s notice that the soundtrack to their little skirmish is _Dangerous Animals_. Especially not when he’s dangling from his metal arm off the side of the building with a single foot still on the building ledge and Stark hums sweet and robotic, “ _When the acrobat fell off the beam, she broke everyone's hearts_ ,” and kicks his foot out.

Dangling from his metal arm wrenches painfully at his shoulder and clavicle where it’s bolted to bone and he can’t help the noise he makes. He doesn’t much care, considering he’s about to either be repulsored in the face, or dropped to his death.

“Fuck,” Winter hisses.

“See, I just never last with you, Winter wonderland,” he purrs.

“Wanna give it another go? We can take it slow,” he hisses. He really hopes Stark drops him. He might be able the break the fall with his arm, but he can’t do much now with the way it’s pulling on his bones.

He doesn’t miss the nickname change, though.

He wishes it was that easy with the others.

“Let’s even this out a little, you look bored sitting pretty all on your lonesome up here anyway,” he says, and suddenly Winter isn’t dangling from his arm, but rather is being held by a metal arm around his waist and they’re both careening off the building.

Winter twists and struggles until, “You won’t survive that fall,” is whispered darkly into his ear.

Instead, Winter stays perfectly still until they’re close enough to the ground that he can survive being dropped, and by that point they’re crashing into the Hydra warehouse anyway, so Winter jams the barrel of his gun into the weak point around Starks waist and fires.

He’s dropped immediately, and he’s rolling to his feet in the midst of Steve’s fight in time to see Iron Man land roughly, gripping his side.

“Hey, nice shot, kid,” he says, and Winter see’s blood and for one heart stopping second thinks he maybe just took down Iron Man for real when the armour seems to glimmer, shivering around his body, but then Stark straightens like he wasn’t hurt at all, and he’s taking two large strides towards Winter and they’re trading blows like the usually do. Winter’s got room to maneuver now and he uses it.

Stark splits his attention between Winter and the Hydra agent’s that Rogers is refusing to kill.

Winter’s never been a challenge for Stark, but still—he feels weirdly proud that he caused some damage. He also felt weirdly terrified he might have killed Stark, but he tries not to think about that and focuses on the exhilaration of finally, finally, doing some damage to the seemingly untouchable man behind the armour.

That’s the thing about Winter. He knows he’s not quite right after Hydra, after getting his head fixed and his memories back.

He’s still not Bucky Barnes, the charming and moral side kick. He’s not the Winter Soldier either, mindless and murderous.

He likes to fight. He likes to fight _Iron Man_. Likes the challenge because at least going up against him, Winter doesn’t have to worry about his strength. He can fight hard and dirty like he wants to oh so badly and Steve won’t say shit because if Winter didn’t fight like this he’d be dead.

“Bucky! What are you doing here?” Rogers shouts.

Winter growls, “It wasn’t exactly my idea!” he shouts back.

Steve must say something over the comms, the comm that Winter knows is lying on the roof he was dragged off, because then Romanoff is there, and they’re both fighting off Iron Man, who is still killing off Hydra goons even with the two of them.

“Some warning would have been nice,” Romanoff grits.

Winter knows he fucked up with the communication unit. He doesn’t feel too bad about that, actually. Mostly, he feels bad that he completely forgot he might have _needed_ to give the team a heads up that their worst nightmare showed up. Winter isn’t used to fighting on a team, that’s for sure.

When Iron Man gets away, another eight people on his kill count, Winter knows he’s in for it, so he tries to stave off the reprimand a little longer with the news about Stark’s suit—How Winter’s pretty sure it can heal him somehow.

“So you finally made the man of iron bleed?” Wilson says, clapping him on the back. It rattles him. Winter doesn’t like being touched, but he allows it, “Nice job, man,” he grins and they all share a laugh about how Stark will show up in a brand new set of armour next time to avoid getting shot again.

It’s nice for a moment but it doesn’t do much to distract Rogers from his disappointment in Winter.

“Bucky, what were you thinking, taking him on alone like that? Where is your comm?” he pitches his voice low, like this isn’t a very public dressing down, but everyone can obviously still hear him since he’s using his captain America voice and the comms are still on anyway.

“He got the jump on me on the roof, I lost it in the scuffle, sorry,” he mumbles.

“Why didn’t you have it in? You should have notified us the second he engaged,” Rogers says sternly.

Winter can’t help but flinch back at the tone—he often does. He’s expecting the pain, it just never comes.

Instead, Rogers gives him the horribly pitying look which is mirrored on Romanoff and Wilsons.

“Understood,” Winter grunts, and stalks off to retrieve his gear.

He doesn’t think much about how his phone isn’t playing music anymore, just snatches it up with his abandoned communication device and his sniper rifle and meets back up with the team. He doesn’t think about it at all until they’re back at the safehouse and he’s listening to music in his room.

The first song that plays is _The Jeweller's Hand_ , which doesn’t immediately raise any alarms until it plays four more times and Winter opens the app to see that no, the song isn’t on repeat, but rather that song has been added six times to his playlist.

_And now it's no ones fault but yours_

_At the foot of the house of cards_

_You thought you'd never get obsessed_

_You thought the wolves would be impressed_

_And you're a sinking stone_

_But you know what it's like to hold the jeweler's hand_

_That procession of pioneers all drowned._

_Shit, shit, shit_ , he thinks. He left his phone on the roof earlier. Stark probably had enough time after his retreat and the team finishing calling in to the police to do any number of things to it.

_If you've a lesson to teach me,_

_I'm listening, ready to learn._

_There's no one here to police me,_

_I'm sinking in, until you return_

It’s obviously Stark, he thinks, just based on that line alone. _There’s no one here to police me._ That’s his whole thing. Rogers didn’t want military oversight and Stark saw it as a necessary evil. There’s more to it than the one line, he’s sure. Stark is nothing is not dramatic.

He assumes at first that the song is meant for Rogers, but the more he listens to it, the less sure he is.

_The inevitables gather to push you around._

_Any old voice makes such a punishing sound._

_He became laughter's assassin,_

_Shortly after he showed you what it was._

It might have been meant for _Winter_.

It was too close to home. It was too on the head.

Winter’s out and into the small sitting room of the safehouse where the others are gathered, “Check your gear for bugs,” he says immediately, dumping everything he had on the roof with him on the table.

They are all staring at the TV though, and Winter has a bad, bad feeling about it when he inches closer to see Stark’s latest worldwide message.

The text is over the image of one of Winter’s former handlers, who is covered in some kind of purple flower he doesn’t recognize.

**_ I’m _ ** _impressed._

It’s not addressed to anyone. Doesn’t have the three stupid nicknames that indicate this is meant for Rogers.

It doesn’t need to be addressed. Winter knows who it’s for.

_You thought the wolves would be impressed._

“Check your gear for bugs, Romanoff,” he says again, turning his back on the TV.

His phones done for. The safehouse is done for. His communication unit is also likely tampered with.

“Do you know something we don’t?” Rogers asks.

Winter grunts, taking shuffling through the pockets of his gear. He nudges his phone towards him, “I don’t usually download the same song six times,” he says, “My phone, my comm, and my rifle were left on the roof. Phones been bugged. Likely he used my comm to listen in on our conversation while we were waiting for police,” he says.

“Shit,” Rogers curses, “We’re being tracked,” Rogers declares, “Pack up, five minutes,” he says to the room, “Buck—leave the comm unit and phone, check the rest and lets go,” he says and walks away.

This isn’t the first time they’ve been tracked and not noticed until they made it to the house. It’s the first time that it’s Winters fault though. The disappointed look of Captain America is being rivaled by the glare that Romanoff manages to scrounge up when she wants to look more than bored.

Still, even feeling as bad as he does… he takes a few seconds and leaves his own message for Stark.

He doesn’t know why he does it.

He doesn’t even know that Stark will see it… It’s little more than their regular banter, but still.

He downloads _All My Own Stunts_ six more times and leaves the app open and the phone locked and on the table. Stark obviously had no problem unlocking it last time.

The team splits up to head for the next safehouse location. Winter knows that Stark could find them in minutes if he really wanted to, that no amount of splitting up and switching cars stops Stark from knowing their every move, yet if they resigned to that fate, the game would be over, and they’d all be dead.

He see’s the way regret weighs on Romanoff. How anger in wearing away at Barton. See’s how Wilson is juggling everyone trying to keep them afloat. The way Rogers is being eaten up by guilt. Every new person who turns up dead with a message to Rogers about how “this is what you wanted, yeah?” and how every bad guy Rogers wants in jail but that ends up with a repulsor blast to the brain adds another hundred tons of failed responsibility to the blond.

They can’t do this forever.

They will have to slow down one day.

Winter switches his stolen car for the fourth time, just so Rogers can’t say he’s not being smart enough and thinks back on that song.

He’s pissed about his phone, but again, it’s not the first time it’s been bugged or hacked or just broken some way or another. Still, he’s not happy about losing his music, especially with how that song is stuck in his head now.

Winter can’t seem to stop humming it quietly under his breath as he drives. Finds himself over-analysing every goddamn aspect of it and how it applies to his situation.

_It’s no ones fault but yours, at the foot of the house of cards._ Winter’s first real decision post-Hydra had been to follow orders from Rogers, and he had no one to blame but himself now that the safe shelter he thought he would find with him turned out to be nothing but the paper-thin walls of a damp little Brooklyn walk-up that the neighbours can hear them through.

_You thought you’d never get obsessed, you thought the wolves would be impressed_. He thought he could come back to Steve and not be drawn back to that need for his attention, for his approval, to impress him. He thought he was enough already, what with the way Rogers tore apart the world for him.

_And you’re a sinking stone_. He was falling back into the pattern. He was failing. He was obsessed with Steve’s approval.

_But you know what it’s like to hold the jeweler’s hand_. Winter knew. He knew from experience that Rogers would never be happy with him. He’d never stop trying to change and perfect him.

_That procession of pioneers all drowned_. Stark has been in this position too. He was never enough, either. In the end, it nearly killed him.

_The inevitables gather to push you around_. The team, Romanoff’s snide comment, the way they touch him and he can never get them to stop.

_Any old voice makes such a punishing sound_. A reference to the way Winter flinched at Steve’s tone?

_He became laughter's assassin, shortly after he showed you what it was_. The way Rogers can nurture camaraderie and joy and then deliver it a swift and immediate death with nothing but a look, or, in this case, a reprimand for a failure.

_If you've a lesson to teach me, I'm listening, ready to learn_. If Winter knows something more about how to impress Rogers, he should speak up. It’s a sarcastic line, he thinks.

_There's no one here to police me_. Self explanatory, but with the added depth that Stark no longer answers to _Steve_. He doesn’t have to worry about accidentally killing people, not like Winter does.

_I'm sinking in, until you return_. But Stark is _still_ looking for Rogers’s attention. Just like Winter. But… Winter doesn’t fight Stark for approval. He fights for his life. Maybe together… they wouldn’t be sinking, drowning, looking for approval they both knew wasn’t coming?

Maybe Winter was over thinking it. He thought that might be it. Likely Stark was just trying to fuck with him. Making them scatter for a new safehouse when they’re all exhausted and pissy with each other. This was in no way a form of serious communication. This was a mere inconvenience. It didn’t mean anything.

Bucky finally makes it to the new safehouse. He’s the last to show, he knows, but he’s the one Stark’s mostly likely got his eye on right now, so the extra effort was necessary.

“Where the hell were you?” Barton demands anyway.

Rogers is standing with his arms crossed, the two of them like angry parents and the image is enough to make him want to laugh.

“Thought I had a tail,” he lies, “Was being paranoid, sorry,” he says.

“Yeah, well where was the paranoia when Stark got the drop on you?” Barton mutters under his breath. Both super soldiers can hear him obviously.

Barton stalks off, “Sorry about him, Bucky,” Steve says, gripping his shoulder. It hurts still, from dangling off the building.

“Winter,” he corrects.

Rogers smiles ruefully, “I’m getting better,” he assures without evidence.

“That message was for you, in case you haven’t figured that out,” Romanoff says when she comes downstairs, “You’re second on the right,” she adds with a nod the stairs.

He nods, “I figured, yeah,” he mumbles.

“The flowers are called Winter Heath,” she explains, “They grow in the snow,” she adds.

Winter’s heart is pounding for some reason. He doesn’t fully understand why that information get’s to him, but it very clearly does. He tells himself it’s because this is a serial killer and a literal super villain, and likely this means he’s going to die very soon, but something inside him is screaming, ‘maybe he thinks your special?’ and Winter knows it’s not true.

Yes, that was his ex-handler (one he really didn’t like), and yes, that was his favourite band, and the lyrics were very pointed, and yes, those flowers had his literal name in them… but this was Stark.

He killed the guys parents.

He’s very clearly Starks replacement in the life of Rogers.

Maybe that was it? Stark wanted Winter to feel special so he could take it all away too. That was a near constant in his life, at least.

_You’ve done great work. You’ve shaped the century_. Followed by, _Wipe him. Start again_.

_I’m not going to fight you. I’m with you till the end of the line_. Followed by, _Bucky—James—Win—Bucky. Bucky. Your name is Bucky! I know you remember that!_

_I’m impressed_. Followed by, _You thought the wolves would be impressed_.

Maybe Stark is the wolf here.

“Well,” Winter says, “I’ve lived a long life,” he says lightly.

Rogers glared at him, “Don’t joke,” he reprimands.

It wasn’t one.

“That’s a pretty pointed gesture, considering he uses a damn Christmas decoration to get Steve’s attention,” Sam points out.

“Mistletoe is a parasitic plant,” Romanoff states, “It’s a call out to the whole team—Stark thinks we took advantage of him, grew ourselves stronger off his hospitality,” she says so offhandedly, objectively even as it’s clear she doesn’t believe it to be true.

Winter thinks they should all believe it to be true. From what Winter can tell, that is exactly what they did. Then left him for dead.

The next mission, Bucky’s equipped with a new communication unit and Rogers watches him put it in and turn it on.

And they call Winter paranoid?

It’s not Hydra they’re fighting, it’s AIM and so Winter is allowed to fight, which is great, because if he was left baking on another rooftop, he might just hand himself over to Stark then and there.

Winter’s a little paranoid. He’s paranoid and he’s listening to the Arctic Monkeys _a lot_.

It’s a recipe for messing up his assignment again, but this time it’s not because someone gets the drop on him.

He just lets his mind wander a little and before he knows it, he’s relying on his gun more than he should and someone dies.

Sort of.

He’s a good shot. Arguably he is _the best_ shot. So, he shoots the agent in a fleshy spot, nothing vital—he’ll live, and Winter moves on. He shoots people non-lethally all the time. There’s lots of places bullets can go that don’t upset Rogers.

However, when Winter knocks out the two other agents in the control room he’s taking over, he turns to find the guy has to audacity to be bleeding out.

“Shit,” he curses.

“Winter? Report,” Rogers calls over the comms.

“Control room secured,” he answers and mutes himself immediately after.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he curses, “Are you _dying_?” he demands from the pale and shaking man bleeding everywhere. He obviously is and Winter doesn’t wait for a response. “God fucking damnit, why?” he growls, “Why the fuck are you bleeding so damn much?”.

The bastard gathers the strength to cough out, “I’m hemophilic,” and Winter is so done with everything.

“Great, great, yeah, Rogers is going to buy that for sure,” he spits sarcastically, “Thanks, your mother fucking majesty,” he growls, and kicks the guy in frustration. He’ll die soon anyway. It’s not like it matters.

He is already on thin ice with the team right now, and he’s not sure what to do about that, but he does know that Roger’s can’t find out that Winter shot the fucking queen’s great-great grandson or whatever the hell this guy is.

So, he has to cover it up.

Looking around, he finds a vent.

That’ll work, he thinks and pops the screen from it. The guy is stick thin anyway. He’ll fit.

He has a second to think that if Rogers finds out about this part, he’s in even deeper shit, but he dismissed the thought right away in favour of dragging the guy over. He’s not dead yet, surprisingly. He will be soon though.

“Get in the vent,” he growls, and the man’s lost too much blood to really put up much argument when Winter kicks at him until he’s out of sight.

Winter shoots the dying man in the head and closes the vent.

Then he takes a breath, “Winter, you are incredible,” he praises himself, sarcastic, muttering as he drags the unconscious agents around to hide the blood smears. “Great thinking on your feet, Winter,” he mumbles, “You’re a valuable god damn asset, is what you are, hiding a fucking dead guy in a vent,” he grunts, kicking one of the unconscious bodies, “Fucking, worlds greatest assassin—best damn sniper of the fuckin’ century,” he belittles. “Fuckin’ Rogers and his fuckin’ high an’ mighty, righteous, holier than fuckin’ Christ himself—”

“Winter, report!” Rogers shouts over the comms.

Groaning, he unmutes himself, “Getting the drive now,” he says, “Rendezvous two minutes,” he grumbles.

Winter isn’t expecting his plan to work. He’s expecting that it’ll be on the news the next morning that Captain America killed another baddie and the whole team will turn accusatory eyes on him.

Instead, the next morning brings news that Iron Man has blown up the office building, and that it’s believed the attack was motivated as evidence tampering.

Winter doesn’t know what to think. He settles on the attack being a complete coincidence that has nothing to do with the man Winter accidentally killed.

There was all but one casualty in Iron Man’s most recent attack, and the fact that Winter knew there was actually zero was going to be just one more secret he takes with him to the grave.

Winter kept a lot of secrets these days, now that Hydra wasn’t keeping them for him.

Still, Romanoff deems it worth celebrating. They cleared the office building of AIM agents and civilians before Stark had a chance to kill anyone (mostly) and that usually means they go out for a drink. It’s a new safehouse, a new neighbourhood in New York, they haven’t found a new place to go.

Rogers never tags along, he’s too recognizable. Wilson frowns at Winter every time he’s the first out the door and never the one to offer to stay behind with him.

Winter used to. He used to stay behind with Rogers every time, and they’d listen to old music that gave Winter headaches because even with his memories fixed, some things just _hurt_. Rogers would frown at him, disappointment climbing his features as pain pinched at Winters.

Whatever kind of bar they end up at, twenty minutes in and some guy buys Winter a drink. It’s a surprise to the table, even more to when Winter accepts it. He wasn’t going to turn down a drink, and besides, the guy didn’t even deliver it himself. He stayed at his own table with his own friends. They looked the business sort.

Winter nods his thanks across the bar and even gives a rare smile to the guy.

“My, Winter,” Romanoff teases, “what would Steve have to say?” she jokes.

“Nothing. He’d just frown,” he says, “Maybe cross his arms,” Winter goes on, deadpan, “Definitely would cross his arms if I went over to say thanks,” he adds.

Wilson frowns at him and Romanoff smirks, “I asked Steve, about the two of you,” she says, “he’s never really given a straight answer, but then again, he didn’t really have to,” she goes on.

He interrupts her, “We were fucking,” he agrees, “He and Stark too, by the sounds of it,” and when he adds that, Wilson chokes on his drink, “Captain America has a type,” Winter finishes his drink and stands.

He might go thank that guy anyway.

He’s tall, thin, dark hair that’s greying at the temples. Reminds Winter of Stark, from what he’s seen in the news, but this guy doesn’t have the tan or the muscle definition. His eyes are light blue too, and Winter’s pretty sure Stark’s are brown.

He thinks about it hard, and promptly realizes that no, that’s a bad idea. He looks too much like Stark and Winter’s already walking a fine line when it comes to Iron Man and he doesn’t need to make his feelings any more confusing.

He goes to the bathroom instead, takes a piss, pretends he’s not disappointed when the guy doesn’t follow him in (but he didn’t really look like the bathroom blowjob type), and comes back to gather Wilson and Romanoff.

It’s Tuesday and the bar is getting busy already, so they should be making themselves scarce now anyway.

He’d love to see this place on a Saturday, he thinks distantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant lines from All My Own Stunts (the song Winter leaves Tony): Been watching cowboy films/On gloomy afternoons/Tinting the solitude/Put on your dancing shoes/And show me what to do/I know you've got the moves/All my own stunts/Hiding has changed its tune/Linking arms, syncing hearts.
> 
> In Winter's case, he's basically just being cocky. Tony's told him that he's impressed, and Winters response is to be like "well there's plenty more where that came from, let's play". Winter's feeling a little bold with the attention, and he's not so interested in hiding and playing a background character in his own movie anymore. He's asking Tony, who is known for his flair for dramatics, to show him how to do this.


	2. She'd Be Frightened of Your Reflection - I Preferred Her as a Cartoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was drunk when I started this and now I'm just trying to keep the same tone while not killing my kidneys... :)
> 
> Chapter title from Potions Approaching

He’s back on another rooftop the next time he sees Iron Man. This time Winter is busy taking out robots being led by some guy calling himself Dr. Doom. It’s very melodramatic, he thinks.

There’s a lot of melodrama in the world these days. Winter thinks that’s Stark’s fault, being the most melodramatic of all.

Starks melodrama had sent the world into a whirlwind chaos of heroes and villains and death and political warfare while this guy’s melodrama has caused nothing but property damage and a hand full of civilian casualties.

Winter hears someone approach and he doesn’t think, just shoots with his glock without taking his eyes off his target on the ground.

It’s not until he hears the ping of the bullet hitting the armour that Winter clues in that a) he just shot someone without checking who or where they were, and b) that’s Iron Man.

This time Winter isn’t a complete idiot, “We got company,” he says into his comm as he’s rolling to his feet.

“No, no,” Iron Man says, “You can stay there,” he says, “You were right were I needed you, Sundance Kid,” his voice is sweet and jovial, but then again he always is.

The blows Stark deals this time are far more precise than they usually are, and Winter doesn’t think for a second he’s getting the upper hand, still he says “I got Stark—focus on the city,” when Rogers says he’s sending backup. He doesn’t know why, only that he’s got a death wish he didn’t know about but what’s done is done.

He tells himself it’s not because he loves fighting Iron Man alone. He knows it’s a lie anyway.

Iron Man isn’t wasting time today, though.

“So, this is a quicky then?” Winter gets out, right before a metal fist smashes into his face. It knocks him back and sends his mask and goggles flying across the roof.

“A man has needs,” Stark says, “Well, hello ocean eyes,” he adds when he’s looking at Winter now, unmasked.

Winter has three separate guns on him not counting his rifle, and then he has two, and then he’s missing four of his knives, and then he has his Uzi, three throwing knives, and the poison coated blade in his boot. Then he has his Uzi and—then he has two throwing knives and—then he has a knife.

It’s the fastest Winters ever run out of weapons with anyone, including Iron Man.

“Didn’t realize you were normally such a considerate lover,” Winter grunts when he’s rolling to his feet for the third time in as many minutes.

“When the moods strikes,” he says, “But right now, I just need you to do as your told,” he growls, “Daddy’s had a very hard day at work,” he adds.

Well, so much for not taking his thoughts _there_ with Stark.

Winter really wishes he had his mask right now, and his attention is split for less than a second trying to locate it on the rooftop, but in that time Stark grazes his leg with a repulsor blast and it brings him momentarily to his knees.

Or, it would have been momentary, but then Stark decides to play really fucking dirty and grabs a fistful of Winter’s _hair_.

He wrenches Winter’s head back and the noise he makes is nothing short of embarrassing.

“Ouh, pretty sound,” Stark leers, “So, what do you say, Sundance kid? Gonna help me out?” he asks, and then he’s dragging Winter over to the ledge of the building and yeah, this is where Winter dies, he’s sure, but no. No, Stark stops next to Winters rifle just out of reach.

“What do you want?” he hisses through his teeth, panting. Rogers is losing his mind over the comm.

Winter could break this hold, he knows he can. The problem was that his opponent was a fucking robot with locking joints which turn the stationary man into a literal unmoveable object.

There’s not much he can do but hang loosely in Starks grasp and glare until he’s flipped and tossed onto his stomach like a literal rag doll.

Winter is strong. Iron Man is stronger.

Especially with the armoured man digging his knee into Winter’s spine. Another pound or two of weight and he’s going to snap it. Even Winter can’t heal from that.

“You’re going to kill for me,” Stark purrs, and Winter notices that the voice modulator is gone, and Stark is whispering directly into Winter’s ear, sending a shiver of _want_ and _yes_ and _right_ through Winter that he really doesn’t need to deal with right now.

Still, his mind get’s stuck like a broken record on that.

_Kill. Kill. Kill._

He _wants_.

It’s so easy. _So easy_. It’s instinct, it’s nature, it’s his default fucking behaviour.

He _loves_ it.

But no one is supposed to know that. No one.

Winter is frozen in place. He needs his fucking mask. Needs to hide because Stark can’t find out. If Stark knows, then he’s sure to gloat to Steve that Winter’s in-fucking-sane and then… and then what? There’s nothing after Steve. There has never been anything after Steve. Without Steve there’s… there’s Hydra, and the Chair, and emptiness. There can never be an after Steve. Steve has to keep him. He has to. Steve is already short with him. He’s one more fuck up away from… Steve can’t find out. Stark can’t find out.

He hears the whine of a repulsor and tenses, but he hears it fire and feels nothing.

Stark tsks gently, “Rogers, I’m going to have to ask you to stand down,” he says calmly, “Otherwise I might break your boyfriend,” he says and applies more pressure to Winter’s spine, making his next exhale a hiss of pain.

Winter realises Stark is speaking into his comm, not Winter’s ear and that Steve’s screaming is for both of them.

“See that guy hiding in the building across the street? He’s your target,” Stark says, still casual and calm, “Kill him, and I let you go,” he threatens, “Miss, and you die, and if that’s not really much motivation, since you are pretty severely depressed if your music playlist is an indication, seriously, you’re almost a hundred, you shouldn’t be listening to that much Evanescence, but anyway, miss the target, and I’m taking another Avenger to keep Maximoff company,” he says and then jerks the comm out of Winter’s ear and tosses it off the roof.

“That was new,” is all Winter can manage to say.

Stark wrenches his face up by the scruff of his hair again, and now Winter can see the other man’s face for the first time. He saw Stark briefly in Siberia, but that was ages ago now. None of them have seen Starks face since then.

He’s lost the signature goatee that people have come to associate with Tony Stark, instead he has a faint shadow of stubble, dark with a smattering of white. His mouth is turned up in a condescending smirk, and his eyes scrunch up in the corners. Dark chocolate and shinning with amusement that only he is feeling are the eyes that bore into Winters soul.

“Be a good boy, Winter,” the hottest man Winter’s ever fucking seen leers again. A noise escapes Winters throat without his permission which he’s personally choosing to believe is from the pain of being bent backwards like he’s in the worlds highest stakes yoga pose, but he can tell that Stark knows that’s not what it is.

His smile is blinding when he strokes metal fingers across Winter’s jaw.

“You wanted me to show you what to do,” he purrs again, and the pressure on Winter’s spine decreases minutely. Enough that Winter knows what Stark wants. The hand in his hair releases a second later and Winter barely catches himself because he’s gone so boneless in Iron Man’s hold.

Well, he thinks, at least he knows Stark got his message, in case the _Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid_ reference wasn’t enough.

Winter doesn’t speak, just drags himself across the roof to his rifle. There’s the whine of a repulsor but he doesn’t look, just knows it’s trained on his back as he settles into position.

Stark _knows_.

That, Winter is sure of.

Stark found the guy he killed and covered it up. He just witnessed Winter shoot at a sound without looking to see what it was. Stark’s been following the Avengers every move, and that means Winter’s every fuck up.

Stark knows this is what Winter was made to do, and he’s _using him_.

Stark can’t just waltz into the building and take out another villain. He’d make even more enemies that way. Though, it’s not like Stark can’t handle it. But he said he wanted Winter to _help him out_. Wanted Winter to do as he’s told. He doesn’t _need_ Winter to do this. If he refuses, Stark will kill him and still get what he wants.

Winter will take the shot. Stark knows that. Rogers knows that.

But Stark knows that Winter _wants_ to take the shot.

There’s a man across the street in an ugly green suit, staring out over the destruction below. Winter knows right away he’s the freak that’s responsible for the robots swarming the streets. This is supposed to be Barton’s target. He’s supposed take him out non-lethally, which is why Winter wasn’t trusted with the man’s position, he knows. Winter can’t be trusted not to kill.

He shouldn’t be.

It should be expected that he’ll kill.

The shot is easy. The man is standing perfectly still, and he’s only across the street. He goes down, falling onto his back. It was a head shot, but… Winter fires again, this time at center mass just to be sure.

Stark chuckles behind him, “Overkill,” he teases.

Bucky thinks he tenses more when he feels Stark’s presence receding than he did at the sound of the repulsor charging behind his head.

He doesn’t know why the thought of an impersonal distance kill upsets him. Doesn’t care to think about it, considering Winter’s own proficiency in long range weapons.

Stark doesn’t kill him though. Just laughs smugly and flies away.

Somehow, some way, Winter knows that he was closer to dying today than he was any other time he’s fought Iron Man.

He knows Stark’s been playing with them all. Picking them off nice and slow to get the most reaction from Rogers. Knows this is Stark playing with Winter. Knows that the blown up office building that covered up for Winter is just part of the game too.

Winter knows that for the time being, he’s made things a little more interesting, a little more _fun_ for Stark.

Thinks he should probably keep that up if he wants to live much longer.

Winter doesn’t mind if he has to sing for his supper, especially not when supper is his continued survival.

The best part of this whole game with Stark today (not including getting his hair pulled by a guy calling himself daddy, and of course _not dying_ ) is that Steve doesn’t get mad at Winter for it.

He still has to deal with pitying looks and too many touches, but there’s no disappointed lecture after the battle.

Winter is unaccountable for the death of Victor von Doom.

It’s a pretty sweet feeling. One he misses very much.

He tries not to let it show though.

And if Winter spends the rest of his night in his room watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, well… that’s his business.

At least he ain’t listening to the Arctic Monkeys.

The _worst_ part of the whole game with Stark is that now Rogers seems to think that there is a chance Maximoff is still alive.

Winter knows she’s not.

Romanov knows she’s not.

Wilson knows she’s not.

It doesn’t matter though. No one is willing to say it allowed less they face the wrathful denial from Rogers and Barton.

No one but Winter.

So, whilst he got off scot free with von Doom, he still has to face Rogers’ angry-but-heart-broken expression for the next few days regardless. Winter fucked himself over with that one, though.

And fucked he was.

Rogers’s idea of punishment was both frustratingly tame, and infuriatingly passive aggressive. And Jesus Christ, for a guy who claims to barely understand Winter anymore, he really hits the nail on the head when it comes to knowing just what to do to make him miserable.

Romanov kept her mouth shut, so she gets to do the easy part of Rogers’s new little plan while Winter is saddled with doing the grunt work with Barton.

Grunt work that involved breaking into Stark Industries properties looking for any evidence that Maximoff was alive.

Winter knew they would never find anything though, no matter how suspicious these warehouses looked on SI’s records. Stark would never have kept her alive. He eliminated her first for a reason. She had been _powerful_. Too powerful to keep alive.

The warehouses are all operational, staffed, secured. It’s not like they’re creeping around abandoned and decrepit buildings in the dark. The only thing remotely suspicious about them is that they both had a period of shut down for maintenance or renovation the same week Maximoff disappeared.

Two warehouses. Four nights of sneaking around each. It takes hours to sweep a single floor of these buildings, and it’s not like they went in knowing where to look.

Mainly they were looking for any discrepancies between the official blueprints that Romanov got her hands on and the actual building. It meant they had to weave their way through every inch of these places.

All without getting caught.

It was an effortless job. Winter could do it in his pajama’s before his morning coffee if he needed to. It didn’t mean the experience was pleasant. Especially not with Barton who was vibrating with nervous energy.

There is a constant hustle and bustle in the first building, so all they need to do is blend in. Relaxed posture, slow and confident movements. It’s a breeze.

Until the radio that’s been playing softly throughout the plant starts playing the Arctic Monkeys.

Winter almost breaks his cover then.

But no one seems to notice. Several employees hum along to the upbeat tempo of _If You Were There, Beware_ and so Winter forces himself to relax. It was just a coincidence.

Except that it plays every night they’ve been casing the place.

Then it plays at the next warehouse too and this time Winter overhears a disgruntle employee complain about the sound. It’s clearly not on the usual playlist.

_If you were there, beware the serpent soul pinchers_

_Can't you sense she was never meant to fill column inches_

_Ain't you had enough? What you're trying to dig up_

_Isn't there to be dug, the thieves help the thugs_

_As they're trying to beat the good grace of a sweetheart_

_Out to the point she'll comply._

The only version Winter knew of Maximoff that would _comply_ was a dead one. He’s reasonably sure that’s what Stark is trying to tell him now. _Ain’t you had enough? What you’re trying to dig up isn’t there to be dug._ But who were the thieves and who were the thugs in this case? Was Stark admitting to having an accomplice?

_And why leave her on her own?_

_If I'd have known then I wouldn't have said it_

_I wouldn't have said it if I would have known_

Winter can feel his brain start spinning, lets himself start that process of over-analyzing like he did with the last song Stark left for him. He does this while keeping his mouth shut about the pattern he’s discovered, since it’s clear Barton hasn’t noticed the staff’s sudden like of British punk music.

Keeps his mouth shut that first night, and then the next because Stark left the message for _Winter_. As an _apology._ At least that’s what he tells himself when he hears the line, _If I’d have known then I wouldn’t have said it, I wouldn’t have said it if I would have known,_ for what might be the thirtieth time that week.

At least he thinks it’s an apology for Stark’s comment about Maximoff and subsequent unwilling search and rescue party Winter’s been roped into.

_There's a circle of witches, ambitiously vicious they are_

_Our attempts to remind them of reason won't get us that far_

_But I don't know what it is that they want_

_I don't know what it is that they want_

_But I haven't got it to give_

_And she hasn't got it to give._

What was it that Maximoff had always wanted from Stark? His money, his hospitality, his acceptance? His life? Whatever it was that Maximoff had always wanted from him, he could never give it. Now, Winter supposed, she had nothing to give either.

Being dead and all that.

That’s the thought that makes his idiot brain catch up and reminds him Stark is a _serial killer_ and is just as likely to kill Winter in cold blood as he is to apologize for an _inconvenience_.

Then Winter promptly reports his findings to Barton.

Stark had been watching them the whole time, they find out, because as soon as Winter says it out loud as a possibility, Stark is _there_.

Not at the SI warehouse, right outside of it when they wrap up for the night.

Right on _schedule_.

“Sneaking around Stark Industries, Barton, really?” Stark drawls, “You know better than to piss off Pepper, she’s handling your ex’s lawyer you know,” he taunts from where Iron Man armour is leaning casually against a tree.

Winter could swear, and in fact did swear to Rogers when he dragged their asses back to the safehouse, that he _blinked_ and then Barton was unconscious.

It must have been the same sonic wave he had tried to use on the Winter Soldier all those years ago, but against someone as human as Barton, had an actual effect. That, or Stark had modified it somehow.

Either way, Winter found himself fighting Iron Man alone yet again.

“I’m starting to think you just like me, Stark,” Winter says right before Stark swings a punch.

His laugh is robotic as always. More so than it had been in Siberia, if Winter recalls.

“Yeah? Saw you got my little serenade,” he says, “I’d sing to you, but I’m trying to keep you alive just a little longer,” he admits.

“You look more like the dancing type,” Winter retorts, “I bet you look good on the dancefloor,” he smirks. He’s not wearing his mask. He’s not wearing a lot of body armour either.

He’s not flirting. He’s just trying to delay his inevitable death.

“Ouh,” Stark cheers, “Friday, que it up, let’s dance,” he says.

A second later his state-of-the-art self learning artificial intelligence plays _I bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor_ and for three minutes, Winter gets the shit kicked out of him by a robot dancing like it’s 1984.

Winter _laughed_.

He laughed until he wheezed while also fighting for his life.

Winter hasn’t laughed in… Well he couldn’t really say.

It was a pretty bad time to be laughing, Winter knew, but Stark really was _dancing_ , and Winter really was getting beat all to hell for his trouble, but the faceplate to the armour was up and Stark was grinning every bit as crazy as Winter knew he was and it didn’t matter because Winter couldn’t have made a clean head shot just then anyway.

Winter always feels _free_ when fighting Stark. Free and an inch from death, but really, that was the only way to be free, wasn’t it?

Winter feels free and he feel good when he’s fighting Stark, especially after Stark made Winter kill Doom. When Stark _let_ Winter kill Doom.

The thing was… just like the song, Winter really did not know what Stark was looking for. He knew what he _hoped_ Stark was looking for, and that was centered more towards self-preservation than a forbidden Shakespearian romance, but then again… maybe there were dreams of naughtiness along with it.

“How long is a little longer?” Winter grits out through clenched teeth three minutes later when he’s face down in the dirt with both arms wrenched painfully straight out behind him and he’s staring down his own death yet again.

Stark sure seems to like Winter face down on his knees despite his compliment about Winter’s eyes.

“Longer than him,” Stark says and Winter knows without needing to look that Stark means Barton.

When Stark knocks Winter out with a blow to the back of the head, he’s not expecting Barton to be alive when he wakes up.

Surprisingly, he is though.

Winter was sure as shit not planning on telling Barton they had different expiry dates though.

Winter thinks that maybe it’s finally starting to sink in for Rogers that Stark is just playing with his food though.

Especially when there is a brain in Barton’s bed at the safehouse.

A brain and two dismembered hands each with a palm full of winter heath flowers.

They identify them by the red painted fingernails.

Winter doesn’t even care that they have to move safehouses again. At least he doesn’t have to keep on with the fruitless searching for a dead bitch—or, uh, witch. A dead witch.

He thinks maybe that was the point.

It feels like a favour somehow and that… that is a terrifying thought.

Winter’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be accepting favours from a serial killer super villain.

He feels like he’s hiding, keeping some dark secret even with everyone’s judgmental glares on him. They only know the half of it, really. The secrets between Winter and Stark go far beyond little purple flowers.

The dead guy in the vent. The overkill. The flirting. The dancing. The laughing.

Winter’s starting to wonder if narcissism is contagious. He’s not sure if he’s contracted it from Stark or from Rogers but either way, Winter feels _special_.

It’s not really a good feeling.

Not when Winter knows it won’t last.

Winter’s not stupid. He knows that Stark didn’t cover for him out of the goodness of his heart. Didn’t kill his handler to make him feel safe. Didn’t _let_ him kill Doom but rather _made_ him. Didn’t deposit Maximoff’s remains to save Winter the trouble. Not in the least. Stark’s likely just waiting for the perfect moment to use it all against Rogers. To use Winter. Waiting for the right opportunity for maximum damage.

That’s the part that made it good though. Winter was an excellent choice of weapon, if he could say so himself.

No one’s talking about it, but they’re all trying to make a connection between the handler that Stark killed and Maximoff. Why those two were marked with winter heath and not mistletoe.

“Maybe he got bored of mistletoe,” Romanoff tries.

Winter tried not to hope it was true. Tried not to think about what it meant if it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sundance Kid reference comes from both All My Own Stunts referenced by Winter in the last chapter, and from another Arctic Monkeys song "Black Treacle". Sundance Kid is a sharp shooter in an old western movie.
> 
> Thanks to everyone reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! I appreciate it more than you know! :)
> 
> Also, I'm naming this version of Bucky: Winter Try-Not-To-Think-About-It Barnes
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://notdoingsohot.tumblr.com/)


	3. If I Could Be Someone Else for the Week, I'd Spend it Chasing After You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little baby chapter this time!
> 
> I added an estimate for how long this story will be, but it's subject to change.
> 
> Just a heads up: I'm using Tony's comic book height which is 6'1 and Winter's MCU height (Sebastian Stan) which is 6'0.  
> Not that I think short people can't be intimidating and sexy, but I'm borrowing other stuff from the comics anyway so...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Winter sends his thanks to the bastard Hydra scientists who gave him the serum that means he won’t wake up in the same amount of pain he passes out with and then prays to whoever is listening that he doesn’t dream that morning when he finally crawls into bed in their new-new safehouse.

He always does though.

He dreams of rough metal hands. Rougher than his own. Colder. Bigger. Brighter.

Dreams of red metal guiding him. Dreams of red water drowning him.

Dreams of blood seeping in alongside the gold inlay of his vibranium arm.

Dreams of red and gold, burned, fused, and drilled into his body.

Dreams to a soundtrack of the Arctic _fucking_ Monkeys.

It’s not a _bad_ dream.

He’s reluctant to call it _good_ only because he doesn’t think he should be making these associations when he knows he’s going to get killed soon enough.

The energy in the safehouse isn’t a good one either.

They’re all up late into the day, and while the mourning process happened almost a year ago (and Winter supposed when Stark said “join” Maximoff, he meant in the freezer), the wound has been reopened for Rogers and his lot again.

Winter doesn’t much care.

He still jumps on the chance to go to a bar when it’s suggested to lighten the mood because at least he’ll have more to reflect on then his own taste in men.

Well, he was severely wrong about that, especially when Rogers tags along.

They end up back at the same bar-turned-club because they haven’t cased out anything new, but it’s Saturday instead of four o’clock on a Tuesday this time so they don’t feel as sad, or something like that.

Winter likes it here. It’s exactly what he hoped it would be.

It’s dark and dirty, the music is deafening and the only way they can talk to each other when not sitting practically on top of one another is sign language or screaming. No one wants to scream about their super-secret superhero business, and Winter can just look away when they start signing back and forth at the bar.

It’s the perfect set up.

Romanov drags Wilson off to dance, leaving the beefy blond sulking squad with Winter and he glares daggers at her from his spot at Rogers’s right. He is wearing his dumb little disguise and Winter thinks the only reason he ain’t ever got caught out was because no one expected a disguise that transparent.

In hindsight, those are always the best disguises.

“Buy you a drink?”

Winter pretends to be surprised by the man who slides up behind him at the bar. Pretends he hasn’t had his eye on him for the last two songs that played.

Pretends he isn’t seeing one, two, three too many similarities between this guy and _Stark_.

He’s tall and lean, broad shouldered and tan. He’s got a goatee that’s reminiscent of Stark from his superhero days but a little less artistic.

It’s not like the guy from the last time they were here. This guy fits the mold nearly perfectly but for the colour of his eyes, shape of his nose, and his voice.

Winter feels intimately familiar with Stark’s voice.

So, he can say with certainty that this is _not_ Stark.

So, he says yes.

Again, it is worth noting that hindsight is always 20/20 and Winter has always had bad taste in men.

The guy waves down the bartender at Winter’s smile, but it’s then that Rogers notices that Winter isn’t alone anymore and catches sight of the man looming into Winter’s space.

Winter never realised how much height was in an inch, but he supposes it has a lot to do with the way the man commands the space he takes from Winter.

Rogers get’s a good look at the man’s profile and clocks every detail that Winter just had and makes a different decision to snatch the man’s wrist from where he was moving to receive the drink from the bartender.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks Rogers with a sharp and unimpressed look.

Rogers looks shocked at the sound of his voice. He does a double take and releases the mans arm gently.

“Sorry, you just looked familiar,” Rogers says apologetic.

The man squints as if in thought, “You know what,” he says, “you look familiar too, have we met?” he asks.

Winter see’s Rogers start to panic. This is exactly why they always leave him at home.

“Thought you were hitting on me,” Winter butts in to save him.

“Oh, I am,” the guy smirks and promptly forgets about Rogers, “I bet you’re the dancing type,” he says.

It’s not the same as the conversation with Stark. Not the same like the voice is not the same. Not the same but _close_.

Close enough that Winter is suspicious. Not close enough that he doesn’t go along when the man pulls him out onto the dancefloor.

Close enough that Winter’s probably not doing much to quell the suspicion circulating about himself between Rogers and his vigilantes. Not close enough that Winter stops to think about why he’s so attracted to his man with greying temples, dark features, and a smug smirk.

Then again, he really doesn’t have to.

Winter can’t get drunk, but he’s familiar with the burn of the whiskey shot he took with the man before they made their way into the swarm of bodies and it helps distract from the equally familiar burn of Rogers’s eyes on him.

Its crowded and it leaves very little room between Winter’s body and the man with no name’s. Not that there needs to be for the kind of dancing they’re doing. All the songs are remixed, have a heavy bass line and an energetic feel that you can feel rattling your bones.

Winter’s expecting the contact, the touch, the pressure, the warmth. He doesn’t cringe away when it comes.

They dance close together, a rhythmic dirty grind of swaying hips.

The man’s hands guide Winter in a controlling and unnecessary fashion, but Winter likes the way it lets them move together, heated and filthy. Likes the way the control takes something away from Winter. Something he doesn’t want.

The kind of dancing is not out of place. It’s rather the only kind of dancing being observed.

Somehow Winter still feels like he’s playing at something wrong.

At something _dangerous_.

The Arctic Monkeys start playing.

Winter’s hips stutter out of time when he places the familiar but exaggerated beat of _Knee Socks_.

The best disguises are the transparent ones.

The man never asked Winter’s name. Never offered his own.

There wasn’t any need.

They both already know.

“You a fan?” the man chuckles darkly in Winters ear where he’s pressed tightly to his back.

But it’s _not_ the man’s voice.

It’s the same dark voice that told Winter ‘ _kill for me’_.

It’s _Stark_.

He freezes only for a second before he’s whipping around to see…

To see the nameless man, lifting an eyebrow in confusion, “Something the matter?” says the nameless man’s voice, and Winter… Winter is not going crazy.

He’s not hearing things at least.

He is likely still going crazy.

“Nothing,” he says and wraps an arm around the back of the mans neck. Let’s the man lead his hips back into a slow and rhythmic grind.

The song isn’t unusual or out of place in the club, not with how it’s remixed. Winter could be hearing things. _He’s not_. There are other reasons for not asking someone’s name at a club. _There’s not_.

The man’s hands are big and warm and leave burning trails in their wake, erasing Rogers’ eyes from Winter’s skin. The man’s grip is too tight sometimes, his fingers pressing painfully into Winter’s hips, into his ass.

It feels good.

_In a small world on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night / In the right place and time_

Winter’s hard, but then so is his dance partner.

_You were a stranger in my phonebook I was acting like I knew / Much better than I do_

He wonders if he could sneak away with him before Rogers notices he’s missing.

_When the zeros line up on the 24 hour clock / When you know who's calling even though the number is blocked_

Wonders what part of him will be left dismembered on Cap’s pillow of he did.

_The ghost in your room that you always thought didn't approve of you knocking boots / Never stopped you letting me get hold of the sweet spot by the scruff of your…_

The man chuckles in Winter ear. It doesn’t sound like the man’s voice but it’s familiar anyway.

“You really are a fan,” he says pulling Winter’s hips forward roughly. It is very much _not_ the man’s voice, but Winter could be going crazy.

“So are you,” he replies.

Winter feels teeth drag across his jaw.

Feels his eyes flutter shut.

Then an impatient tap on his shoulder from Wilson.

So, he wouldn’t be slipping away tonight.

Winter thinks his disappointment must show on his face because the man laughs again. It sounds like the man’s voice and not anyone else’s.

Winter’s getting whiplash trying to keep up.

Wilson gives a jerk of his head to indicate where Rogers is standing cross-armed by the exit, nearly tapping his foot in impatience.

“That’s my ride,” Winter says.

“Too bad,” the man replies.

“Another time, maybe,” Winter says vaguely.

The man nods and smirks, “Since you like the music so much”.

“We have so much in common,” Winter says deadpan. He means it though. Or he could mean it, depending.

“Hey,” the guy says as Winter turns to leave, maybe to ask Winter’s name, if he really was just some guy.

“You should give me your number,” he says instead of anything in remotely expected.

It couldn’t be Stark. It couldn’t be. Stark knows Winter’s not an idiot.

“Sure”.

It’s a goddamn Stark phone.

Winter raises an eyebrow. Makes a contact, adds his number, leaves his name blank.

The man doesn’t ask. Just raises and eyebrow right back.

Winters cursing his own stupidity much later that night.

The man doesn’t text him or call him, and Winter didn’t really expect him too, but he thinks maybe if he did, that would have allowed Winter’s paranoia to settle long enough to fall asleep.

Instead, Winter lies awake, fully clothed in combat gear and waiting for Iron Man to crash into the safehouse and start shooting.

Winter doesn’t mention anything about giving his number to some guy who may or may not have been Tony Stark in a really bad disguise.

They all already know Winter danced with a guy who may or may not have been Tony Stark in a really bad disguise.

He doesn’t think he should give them any more reason to side eye him.

Rogers looks ready to strangle Winter as it is.

“What the hell was that?” He’d asked when they got back.

This time it really was a private scolding which meant Rogers knew on some level he was over-reacting and didn’t want witnesses to his jealousy.

“Dancing,” Winter replied simply.

“Like hell it was, Bucky,” Steve spat back.

Winter shrunk back a little, “It’s what everyone else was doing,” he lies, and then cheats a little, “and if I hadn’t distracted him he would have recognized you”.

Winter can’t get in trouble with Rogers. Not too much at least. There’s a fine line between being worth the misery he causes and being too much to handle. Rogers is already handling a lot. He wants to find comfort and familiarity in Winter. He never does, but he’ll keep trying as long as Winter doesn’t mess up too much.

It’s higher stakes now, Winter thinks.

If Rogers doesn’t want him anymore, neither will Stark.

He has to balance this just right.

It’s all self-preservation.

Nothing to do with a fear of life without Rogers. Nothing to do with the fear of being useless.

“Sorry, Steve,” Winter says, “It’s a new century and all that,” he smiles a fake sheepish grin and looks up through his lashes.

Rogers relaxes, grips Winters shoulder and smiles, “Yeah, I get it,” he says.

They part ways for the night and Winter stays in the good books just a little longer.

Funnily, Rogers doesn’t say anything about his choice of dance partner.

And then the reality of what Winter’s done catches up and see’s him dressed for war lying on his bed and staring at his phone like it’s a bomb.

Every night.

For a week.

It never chimes. Iron Man never crashes into the ceiling to kill them all.

Winter is paranoid, but is it really paranoia if he _knows_ there’s something to fear?

He knows there’s something to fear because he does get a text message a week later and the number is _blocked_. He’s not even sure how that’s possible. Wasn’t the point of a text to reply?

It comes the night before their next fight with Iron Man.

**_From_ ** **blocked _at 00:00_**

_> >Was hoping to see you again._

Winter has no idea what he’s supposed to do next. Does he try and respond? Does he tell the others how suspicious it all is?

He settles on replying, but it takes an hour to do so.

**_01:06_ **

_< <Busy week_

And the message goes through somehow, since the next message came immediately after.

**_01:06_ **

_> >That’s to bad. Youre a good dance partner._

It’s just the nameless guy from the bar. Just some middle aged, hot as fuck company manager with too much vacation time and an annual bonus.

The blocked number was a glitch.

It was just a stranger in his phonebook.

<< _Is that what that was?_

_> >Good point. Could it have been more?_

The best disguises were subtle, not dramatic.

Did Stark even know how to not be dramatic?

<< _Maybe_

A stranger he was acting like he knew.

_> >Maybe means yes in my book_

<< _Something tells me ur the kind of guy that doesn’t hear no often enough_

A stranger in his phonebook he was acting like he knew. Much better than he really does.

>> _Would you have said no to me?_

He didn’t know who it was. The number was blocked.

It wasn’t Stark.

It might as well have been for the way Winter answers.

<< _No_

Winters left for an hour or so sitting and stewing in how that was an awful thing to admit when he knew that the man on the other end of this was just as aware of the game as Winter was.

>> _I wanna know what name you gave me in your phone since you let me take a creative liberty with yours_

Winter hadn’t given a name for the nameless, faceless man with the blocked number. He doesn’t wasn’t to think about who he is any more than he already is. Doesn’t want to think about who he’s not, either.

He doesn’t take much creative liberty with his decision. Calls the man both what he wants him to be and what he doesn’t want him to be. Calls him nothing at all.

<< _Starkphone Guy._

Winter doesn’t know why, but he’s immensely disappointed when Starkphone Guy doesn’t reply.

He supposes that might not be the nicest thing to call someone these days.

It’s also one in the morning.

It doesn’t matter. A few hours of sulking in and out of sleep and then Winter has more things to worry about.

The call comes from Spider-man, but when they arrive to central park where the co-ordinates originate from, it’s Iron Man who’s locked into battle against a guy with robotic tentacles instead.

“Oh, this is embarrassing,” Iron Man says over the _secured_ comm channel.

“What the hell?”

“I sent the kid home already guys, you just missed him!”

“What are you, a good guy now?”

“Definitely not, no. This is for science. Data collection. I just want to get a few good video angles before I call it a day,” he says casually.

“You will never defeat me!” octo-man shouts.

They’re just staring for way too long, Winter knows—but it’s not like they’ve ever seen Iron Man take down another villain, besides the one he had Winter kill.

The motivation for this seems _even more_ confusing.

“Who… who do we fight?” Barton asks.

They settle to focus on Octo-guy, since it’s likely the only way the man will survive the encounter at all. Winter can’t recall the guys name for the life of him even though he keeps shouting it. Winter just doesn’t care.

It’s the most useless he’s ever felt in a fight, really. Iron Man is the only one doing anything more than playing jump rope with robotic arm-cables.

Iron Man doesn’t want them to take down the octy-man though, which he makes clear every time they get too close and he turns on them.

Wilson get’s knocked out of the sky. Barton’s bow get’s snapped in half. Steve’s shield is stuck in a tree.

The whole thing _is_ pretty embarrassing alright.

“Thought I saw you in a bar the other night,” Winter says, wondering if Stark will pick up on the reference. Wondering why he cares. Tells himself it’s just to distract the man from Romanoff trying to get close to octopussy.

“Yeah?” Stark calls back and whacks Romanoff with a dismembered oct-arm.

“Close enough to be your ghost,” Winter grunts when he tears one free himself.

“Ouh,” Stark says, “I want that one, trade!” he yells and tosses his cable at Winter’s head.

It’s the first time Winter’s come away from a fight where Iron Man was present and he’s nothing but a little sweaty.

He can’t say much for the others though.

Octo-dude is dead, but Winter sort of figured he would be when they showed up and Iron Man was there.

Rogers checks in with Spider-man and finds out Stark had _sort of_ kidnapped him with an Iron Man suit and dropped him back off at his apartment building when octo-nuts bruised the kid’s ribs.

It’s not exactly surprising, they all know Stark still has people he cares about. It’s just that now adays he murders the people who hurt them in cold blood.

Winter really couldn’t tell if Stark had gotten Winter’s reference earlier. He did seem preoccupied with getting as much data as he could on those metal tentacles though.

He tries not to be disappointed.

He should be happy, he’s completely unscathed after that fight.

He’s not happy. He’s only unscathed because Iron Man was too busy to play.

He tells himself he’s upset only because it might mean he’s no longer entertaining and thus the likelihood of his death being sooner rather than later has increased. He’s not sure that’s true.

He also tells himself that he _still_ doesn’t know if Iron Man got his reference when he gets back that night and sees a text notification on his phone.

 ** _From_** **Starkphone Guy** **_at 09:53_**

 _> >You can call me anything you want_.

Winter doesn’t reply, just lays in his bed with a gun under his pillow and plays _Cornerstone_ by the Arctic Monkeys until he falls fitfully asleep.

Because he still isn’t _sure_. Except for the moments that he is.

As few and far between as those are.

It’s always so hard to be sure when it comes to Stark. When it comes to Starkphone guy too.

**_05:12_ **

_< <Who am I in ur phone?_

He doesn’t know why he asks. Doesn’t know why he keeps the contact, but it hasn’t gotten anyone killed yet, so he tells himself it’s fine.

**_05:34_ **

_> >Missed Connection_

_< <I wouldn’t call it missed_

>> _You coming back to the bar?_

There’s no way that Rogers will let Winter out to a bar again after that last time. He won’t out and say anything. Won’t _forbid_ it. But he’ll hint at possible retribution if Winter talks about it. He’ll ask for Winter’s company on nights the others are going out. He won’t let him, even if he doesn’t say the words.

Winter does have all his memories restored. He knows how it goes with Rogers.

**_06:04_ **

_< <No _

_> >Didn’t think so_

_< <Whats that supposed to mean_

Winter knows exactly what it means, but he wants to know… if this is just a game, then how close he can take it to reality before it’s all over?

_> >Means your boyfriend tightened your leash and won’t be letting you out to play again._

The reply is harsh and it cuts too close too home to be anything short of painful. It’s the truth, that Winter is tethered to Rogers like a dog. Has been even before Hydra he thinks, but Rogers tells it a different way when Wilson comments on it.

_< <Hes not my bf_

It’s the only denial he has and they likely both know it.

_> >But he’s holding the leash._

_> > Don’t worry. We’ve all been there._

Somehow, it’s hard to imagine either Stark or Starkphone as ever being in this position, even though he knows that Rogers beat the heart out of Stark maybe even worse than he has to Winter.

He thinks maybe the reason Stark got broken down harder was because Rogers never really succeeded in the task.

Stark wasn’t the kind of animal you leashed or caged, he was the kind to shank you with the broken bars, or strangle you with the rope, but Rogers still tried, and now… Now Rogers was on borrowed time.

_< <U don’t seem like a leash person_

_> >It depends on what end I’m on. _

_> >Are you a leash person? Or are you hoping to slip away?_

That was the million dollar fucking question, wasn’t it?

Did he want to slip his tether?

To be free?

No. That was the short answer. No, because there were two things in the world that Winter was afraid of: life without Steve Rogers and being useless.

Slipping his leash meant no more Rogers, and while _sometimes_ Winter could entertain the idea, it also meant being _useless_.

He’s not sure if the need to be useful came before or after Hydra. He thinks maybe before.

Either way, Winter is terrified of being useless now and he can’t seem to wrap his head around how to be useful to anyone other than Rogers.

Except for maybe one other person.

But life without Rogers was Hydra. It was misery. It was agony.

Hydra hadn’t been so much a leash of its own as it had been a shock collar. The only structure was pain, impossible to anticipate, impossible to avoid.

Pain had come that way on his own too. When he held his own leash. He wasn’t very good at holding it. Held it too tight. Nearly strangled himself with the rope.

Then again, so did Rogers. Held too tight and made it hurt when Winter wasn’t expecting it, in ways he couldn’t anticipate.

So, who else had ever held Winters leash? Who else had ever directed Winter with firm hands and dark words?

He could think of two, but it really only meant one.

So, he supposed the answer was that those two things, being leashed and wanting to slip it, were not mutually exclusive.

**_06:48_ **

_< <Depends on who has the other end._

Winter sleeps until ten in the morning. He thinks he deserves it, but he might be the only one who does, considering Romanoff has a cracked rib and Wilson a sprained wrist.

“I have a job for you, Frosty,” Iron Man says the next time they see each other.

But it’s not Iron Man who approaches him.

It’s _Stark._

In jeans and a black Lacoste polo shirt, hands in his pockets and walking alongside Winter who has a bag of groceries in one hand.

He doesn’t really know what to do other than look back and forth between the busy sidewalk and the super villain-slash-serial-killer walking next to him.

“I don’t think we’re for hire,” Winter says plainly. It’s not like either of them can start a brawl in the middle of the street.

Well they could, but they aren’t exactly dressed for the occasion.

Winter see’s a camera on the corner and scratches his nose to hide his face. He’s not a criminal anymore—the world having dropped his name in lieu of a bigger, badder, more dramatic story. The story of the man walking next to him now.

Winter’s sure neither of them should be seen on camera though. Not separate, and not together.

Stark doesn’t take the same precautions.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and nods at the camera that was now facing the other direction, “and I didn’t mean Rogers,” he adds, but Winter assumed that anyway.

If he did, maybe he would have asked yesterday. Or at least not put two of them out of commission.

“I don’t know if _I’m_ for hire then,” Winter amends, “seeing as you’re a super villain and I’m like…” Well, he wasn’t exactly certain what he was. A vigilante? A community service worker? A little of both he supposed, “a community volunteer,” he finishes lamely.

“You’re like… an assassin,” Stark imitates, mockingly.

“Not anymore,” Winter says immediately.

“You killed a guy for me last month, Winterwonderland,” Stark laughs. It’s as pretty as it is maniacal.

“You threatened me,” Winter tries and then turns to take a side street away from the safehouse.

Stark looks down the street that should take Winter back to the others and the direction he’s chosen with an unimpressed eyebrow.

They should probably move again. Not that it will do any good. So instead, Winter pretends he was successful in throwing Stark off their trail and continues in the wrong direction.

“Okay, I’ll threaten you again, does that make you feel better?” he asks lowly. His face is pleasant enough, but his voice does seem… menacing. For a moment Winter could swear it takes on the Iron Man robotic tone even though Stark is clearly not in the suit.

Winter knows the suit is nearby though.

Doesn’t think for a second that it’s not. That he’s not in just as much danger right now than he is any other time he’s spoken to Stark.

“I don’t feel very threatened,” he lies.

Then his metal arm goes dead at his side at it pulls him up short.

It’s _completely_ dead. No input to his brain, no output response. He can’t feel it. He can’t move it.

It is not the only weapon that Winter has on his, but it’s by far the best. It’s the only weapon he has even remotely on par with Iron Man.

Stark winks at him with electric blue eyes.

Contacts maybe? It could be how he controls all the tech now instead of the sunglasses that Rogers is familiar with.

Winter doesn’t know, but whatever the hell it is, it’s terrifyingly unnatural.

That might just be his dead arm though.

“How about now? Or would you rather I make it hurt?” Stark purrs almost sweetly.

Winter would not like it to hurt. At least not in the middle of the sidewalk, he thinks hysterically.

“Consider me threatened,” he says tightly.

Well, so much for all those plans for getting the drop on Stark out of his suit, Winter thinks bitterly.

Winter’s never been one to underestimate a foe, and he’s pissed that Rogers apparently _is_.

His arm returns to normal.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fun,” Stark says casually, picking up Winter’s dropped bag of groceries.

“Fun sounds worrying from your mouth,” Winter hears himself say.

Stark continues walking a slow a leisure pace. Winter blinks in disbelief for a moment before catching up with the man.

“Relax, I won’t tell mommy this time,” Stark smirks as they walk, Stark leading them back around towards the safehouse.

“Right,” Winter vaguely, “Why do you need me anyway? You don’t have long range weapons in that suit?” Winter knows he does.

“I promised I wouldn’t hurt this guy,” Stark says with a shrug, “and I like to consider myself an honest guy,” he smirks and goes on, “But I didn’t promise not to _have_ him hurt,” he grins.

Winter tries to redirect their course again but feels a firm hand take up residence at the small of his back right above the gun tucked into his waistband.

Stark leads them closer and closer to where he’d really like them not to go.

He doesn’t know if he means that literally or figuratively.

“Thought you would want someone dead,” Winter says, “you don’t seem like the warning kind,” he adds with a double meaning. The hand on his back feels like a warning. Winter’s not the one in control here.

“You can kill him if you want,” he shrugs one shouldered, “it wont last,” he says simply.

“Deadpool,” Winter realizes.

“That’s the one”.

“Why?” Winter asks. He should know better not to ask those kinds of questions, but he can’t help it when it slips out.

“I need to know what he knows,” Stark answers seemingly honestly.

“And you promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” Winter adds.

“Exactly. You’re smart, for an attack dog,” Stark praises. His voice is condescending, but it feels more real than any praise he’s ever received now that he’s aware of the hoax Hydra was spinning for him.

“More of a guard dog lately,” Winter mutters thinking of the leash that’s keeping Winter chained up on the porch of his potential.

He doesn’t know why he lets it slip. Doesn’t really expect Stark to have heard him, but he obviously does.

“All bark and no bite?” he smirks and stops walking to face Winter fully. Stark is barely taller than Winter, but somehow he seems more imposing than anyone really should when wearing a polo shirt.

They are exactly one block away from the safehouse.

Winter clocks one, two, three, four… five… six too many similarities between Stark and the guy he danced with at the bar.

One of them was the way his hand felt on Winters back, leading, controlling and burning away everything else.

Stark steps away, offers Winter’s grocery bag back.

When he numbly accepts it, he feels a slip of paper come along with it.

Stark’s grin is unbearably smug when he pats Winter’s face and he’s too gobsmacked to flinch.

“Well, enjoy your chew toy, puppy” Stark says and walks away.

Winter slips the piece of paper into his pocket with shaking hands.

Hands. Plural. The metal one has never shook before, he doesn’t think.

It’s shaking now. It’s shaking when he gets back.

It’s shaking when he tells Rogers he had a tail and he’s sorry it took so long but it’s fine now really, he knows he lost whoever it was.

It’s fine.

_Snowflake,_

_Norton Packaging 01:00, Tuesday._

_Who is spider-man?_

There is no signature, not like there is a signature attached to Starks messages for Rogers. Instead, a single stem of winter heath falls from the folded paper. Several of the flowers stained in flaking rust.

He doesn’t know whose blood it is.

He doesn’t know if he’s just been marked for death or something more.

Just knows he’s been marked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love Deadpool and I'm very sorry for all the bad things I'm going to do to him in the name of over-protective-dad-Tony.
> 
> Also worth noting, it's not meant to be Spideypool exactly, but if you want it to be, know that Peter is 20 years old by the time this takes place. 
> 
> Also, also worth noting: The lyrics for the song Knee Socks in this are from a live recording of the song where the artist sings "you were a stranger in my phonebook I was acting like I knew, much better than I do" but the recorded lyrics on the album are instead: "you were a stranger in my phonebook I was acting like I knew, 'cause I have nothing to lose"   
> so if you look it up and notice the discrepancy that would be why.   
> That's really the most important lyric from that song for this fic.
> 
> The song that Winter is talking about is Cornerstone and it's about the artist mistaking different people from different bars as his lost love and then asking to call them by her name. Just as Winter requests to call the guy at the bar 'Starkphone guy' and receiving no reply. At the end of the song, the artist encounters his lost loves sister and makes the same request, to which she says: I'm really not supposed to but yes, you can call me anything you want. Which is the message that is waiting for Winter when they get back.
> 
> Hope you're having fun with this!
> 
> I think I'm going to give the chapters names now because it's fun! I might also go back and give a more detailed explanation for the songs in the last two chapters too if you're interested in my interpretations! 
> 
> Any big Arctic Monkeys fans? If so, what songs do you think best describe this budding little nightmare of a fic? :)


	4. To My Knees You Do Promote Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Wade. :(

Winter is less paranoid leading up to this ‘favour’ he’s doing for Stark. He can’t very well torture the merc with the mouth for information if Winter is dead. Winter is reluctant to call it something like an assignment or a job, as those seem to imply they might become reoccurring and Winter knows that’s not happening.

The sudden change in his behaviour doesn’t go at all unnoticed.

It would have been strange if they hadn’t noticed, really. Winter has gone from constant vigilance and guns at the table everyone, to sweatpants and a hoody the moment he gets in the door.

It’s odd enough behaviour that Rogers has to enlist Wilson to sniff out possible instability again. He doesn’t know what they’ll do if (or when) they find it now. They don’t have Maximoff to threaten hand-wavey magic on him if he doesn’t brush his hair and shower daily like he’s supposed to.

It’s just his luck that Romanoff decides to be part of the intervention too.

They talk to him about bottling up his emotions while shooting down every expressive action Winter has taken in the last four years point blank in the head. His name being the biggest of all.

Romanoff goes on to offer her own experiences post-Red Room like that will help him somehow.

They don’t realise he’s nothing like them though.

Romanoff and Barton were normal kids taken off the street and twisted up.

Wilson was a normal man tossed into war and twisted up.

Winter was born twisted up. He’s been twisted up his whole life. He was a killer before Hydra gave him the upgrades. He’ll always be one in his heart no matter how tightly they try and squeeze it out of him with a friendly grip on his arm.

They don’t seem to see that Rogers attracts twisted up people.

Uses them to make himself feel smoothed out and _straight_.

They don’t seem to see that Rogers is a damn liar, that, or Bucky Barnes was.

Romanoff makes an interesting point though.

“You’re not responsible for Stark,” she says, “loosing his parents isn’t what made him this way. He was like this long before he found out about Hydra”.

It’s an interesting point, because it’s true.

Losing his parents wasn’t what drove Stark into madness four years ago.

It was losing everything else.

Of course, Winter knew that already. Rogers wasn’t drawn to Stark because he was _stable_.

Stark’s always been a ticking time bomb.

Rogers just didn’t know how little time was left on the clock until he was being burned by the heat of the explosion.

Winter doesn’t think Rogers expected Stark to be a fucking phoenix, but he thinks they all should have seen this coming.

Winter is pretty sure this isn’t the first time Stark has crashed and burned and made sure to take someone down with him.

Winter thinks Stark’s probably learned a lot when burning up and crashing into the earth as many times as he has. He thinks Stark has learn lessons meant for people beyond the veil when it happened, and if this makes two fires, then Winter would say he’s likely the smartest man alive.

He’s definitely the scariest, Winter thinks running through another calibration of his metal fingers. Just to be sure they still work.

Winter doesn’t say any of that out loud. Instead he looks her in the eyes and says, “You think I’m trying to fuck away my guilt”.

Wilson cringes, but it was the point they were both making anyway.

“I know you are,” she says raising a condescending eyebrow. It’s not a good look on her face.

Winter can think of only one face where it would be.

“I guess you’re the expert,” he says, “Of _attempts_ at least,” he says, glancing at the stairs leading to where Rogers is likely got his ear pressed to the floor.

Winter isn’t trying to fuck away the guilt though.

He knows it’s impossible to escape, especially with his _limited time frame_.

But if he’s analysing why he’s attracted to the villain of the century, he’s not going to do it when the Black Widow is watching for micro expressions.

He’s not looking to right any wrongs, he can admit that much. Not looking to sooth his guilt with gentleness shared between his body and that of someone who might just be the ghost of someone he hurt.

He’s looking for someone who looks like they can do him the kind of no good roughness that he knows only someone as fucked up as Stark is capable of.

He’s not trying to fuck the guilt away. Not trying to reverse what he’s done. He’s trying to drown in it.

If he’s lucky –If _they’re_ lucky— maybe, just maybe, when they are all dying in a gruesome bloody mess, they will feel the weight of the guilt they have all been carrying leave them when they atone with their lives.

What goes around comes around and all that.

They’ve all built themselves stronger off Stark, it’s only fair he uses them right back. Uses their deaths to put himself back together stronger than before.

Winter doesn’t exactly think that’s unfair.

And would you look at that? Winter’s found a new way to be useful!

But as far as attraction goes, you might just say he’s looking for someone to do him no good, and Stark looks like he could.

There’s more to it than that, he thinks, but tries not to think about it.

Tries not to think about anything at all when he gets a text from Starkphone Guy days after their last conversation.

**_13:08_ **

_> >Keep me posted. _

_> >About that leash youre wearing._

**_16:53_ **

_< <Is that an order?_

_> >Yes._

Winter tells himself he’s being responsible when he doesn’t reply. Tells himself that it’s his choice to ignore it and not at all Rogers influence that has him shrinking back from the one person who’s dared to question Winter’s motives. Who is rapidly replacing Rogers’ too soft fingerprints on Winter’s soul.

Tells himself he owes it to Rogers because Winter already has enough fucking secrets he’s keeping from him.

The biggest of all is the _favour_ to Stark and all that it entails.

Despite what Winter said about Starks idea of fun, the guy was _right_.

This _is_ fun.

It’s fun sneaking out of the safehouse in the middle of the night. It’s fun stealing a van. It’s fun kidnapping Deadpool from where he was passed out in a dumpster.

It was even more fun when Winter got a chance to play with _his_ food for once.

Stark has given him more freedom than ever before.

Winter can take this as far as he likes, and even if Deadpool dies, it never lasts.

And he’s crazy, and Rogers will never believe him.

And it’s good.

So, Winter bats away a katana, twists it up against his vibranium arm, jams his knife into Deadpool’s shoulder joint and pulls both arm and Katana from his body.

He gets a nick in his side to the trouble, but it’s worth it. It will heal, just not as fast as usual.

Winter has always found that the best way to slow Wade down is dismemberment.

“Holy shit! You are terrifying! Are you _growling_?” Wade shrieks, “I thought you were a good guy! Give that back!”.

“Who is spider-man?” Winter asks on what likely sounds very much like a growl now that he really listens.

Winter doesn’t actually know the answer himself, but he does know that Stark already knows because he’s the one that recruited the kid.

Which means Winter also knows the reason for all this is to keep the kid safe.

Winter’s not overly fond of the kid. He’s chatty like Deadpool is. Different from how Stark is.

Still, he does his job.

He does his job damn well because if he doesn’t then he thinks he dies at the end of this.

Then again, he probably dies if Deadpool does give him a name anyway.

So, he doesn’t have much to lose.

He puts his very best foot forward.

Winter doesn’t usually fight with a sword, and he’s not very graceful with it.

Neither is Deadpool though.

Winter likes the way the blade sinks deep into Deadpool’s lung and he can feel it when he coughs. Likes the way it snags on bone. Likes the way is sounds through the air. Likes the way it sounds buried in flesh.

Deadpool babbles the whole time, and Winter doesn’t listen to most of it.

“We’re not telling him shit, Yellow! Don’t be a bastard!”, “Oh, who are you calling stupid! Stupid!”

Winter always forgets how much Deadpool talks to himself.

“Who is spider-man?” Winter asks again.

“Man, you can kill me all you want, you know I can’t die anyway,” Deadpool says with a petulant upturn of his chin.

He’s got one arm and one working leg. The other is missing a kneecap because Winter really likes the way the katana slices through the cartilage and tendons there.

“But it still hurts you,” Winter replies simply and then throws a knife to burry in Deadpool’s throat hoping to give Deadpool a minute of silence to think about his next words.

“That’s enough, puppy, bring him here,” Winter hears Stark’s amused voice from behind him.

He hadn’t heard him come in, but he’s not surprised.

He turns to see Stark looking entirely too expensive for an abandoned packing plant, if he’s one to say. Winter can see how his shoes are gleaming from here.

Deadpool tries for an explosive, but he tosses it and it’s a dud.

“Shit,” he curses, “That’s Stark isn’t it?” he asks, peaking around Winter’s leg to see the man in his fancy black slacks and crimson dress shirt. Winter might say he’s just come from work in an office, if he didn’t know better.

Despite the insulting name, despite the fact that Winter was only really here so he wouldn’t be the one bleeding out, despite all the reasons that he’s starting to see slip through his fingers, Winter grabs Deadpool by the throat and drags him over obediently.

He holds him up for inspection. The sound of blood splashing on the cement flooring is almost louder than Deadpool’s voice.

“Stark! Tony! Hey, hi! Great to see you!” Deadpool blathers, “Sort of! I can only see with one eye, but you look dashing as ever! Don’t tell Spidey I said that though. He says it’s weird if I call his dad hot,” he goes on.

“Spidey,” Stark says in a dark and emotionless voice.

“Yeah! He’s like my BFF!”

“You know how old he is?” Stark asks sweetly.

“Uh, like twelve? I don’t know, he’s a baby though! Isn’t that so great! Kids are getting involved in all the do gooding! You must be so proud!”

“I am,” Stark’s voice is pitched low and menacing and he gives an impressive glare to Deadpool’s half masked face where he’s dangling in Winter’s grip.

“Oh! Oh, I know what this is! You’re doing the over-protective parent thing Spidey said you would do! Oh man, I’m relieved! I thought maybe tall dark and broody was trying to start something with my new friend—hey wait a minute! You’re a good guy!” he gasps at Winter, “No, no White, I know what I’m talking about! He’s a good guy in this universe!”

“In this universe?” Winter can’t help but ask.

“Yeah, man! In this universe you’re a good guy!”

Stark rolls his eyes, “Alright, Wade—shut up,” he says.

Winter’s surprised when Deadpool does in fact stop talking, but then he notices it’s because he’s dead and it is _Winter’s_ metal hand around his throat that caused it.

He looks at Stark when Deadpool slumps to the ground.

His eyes are glowing electric blue again.

“Good boy, Winter,” Stark purrs.

He feels a shiver of fear and adrenaline run up his spine, chased by trails of sweat and blood.

Winter’s covered in both his and Deadpools blood, he notices. He should have expected it, considering who he was sent here to fight.

Stark is grinning at him, sharp like a shark.

They are standing very close together, Winter notes. Stark uses the inch he has on Winter and makes it seem like a foot. He looms the same way that the man at the bar loomed but then again, Winter expected as much.

He reaches out while Winter is distracted moving each of his fingers to ensure they are in fact _his_ again now that the blue has been replaced by the equally terrifying whisky in Starks eyes.

Winter doesn’t fight the removal of his mask, just schools his expression to it’s normal blank slate.

Or tries to, he thinks.

He knows his pupils are likely blown from any number of things he doesn’t want to think about but finds himself thinking about anyway. His breathing is a little erratic, not leveling back out with the way his heart is still pounding in his chest.

So, it’s not the normal blank slate he wears, because unlike killing for Hydra, Winter can _feel_ this, and unlike fighting with Rogers, Winter can participate.

He distantly hears his mask clatter to the floor but he’s more focused on how Starks thumb rubs roughly at the crease left by the plastic on Winter’s cheek like he’s offended something has dared mar Winters face in such a gentle fashion.

He’s distracted again when Stark clicks his tongue and runs and even rougher hand through his matted hair.

Winter’s lips part on a silent gasp. It hurts, enough that it’s all Winter can feel despite the cuts and bruises he knows he’s sporting.

The way Stark is looking at him, the way he’s got Winters head tilted back just a little, he doesn’t know if he’s about to have his throat slit or if Stark’s going to kiss him.

Winter can’t stop either thing from happening.

Not because he’s helpless though.

He just can’t convince himself to do anything other than breath and stare into the abyss that is Tony Starks eyes. He thinks there’s a wormhole to another world in his gaze just like there’s one in his soul. Maybe it’s all the same one. It looks like it could swallow Winter whole just like the one in New York had swallowed Iron Man.

Winter thinks back to what Deadpool said, about universes.

Thinks about universes where Winter isn’t a good guy, for all that he’s a half-assed one in this world. He thinks there is likely many of those.

Thinks about universes where maybe he didn’t kill this man’s parents, but maybe that wouldn’t make this feel as right as it does knowing he did. He thinks Starks hands would hurt more if Winter didn’t deserve it. Maybe they would never come at all.

Thinks about a universe where Stark slits his throat.

Winter looks at Stark through his lashes, “A parallel universe,” he muses, “perhaps could be the perfect scene,” his voice is barely a whisper.

He doesn’t have to think about a universe where Stark kisses him.

He kisses him in this one.

It starts off biting and slow, but it doesn’t end that way.

It’s an all-encompassing kind of kiss. Winter feels in down to his feet, in both his hands. Feel’s it in his soul.

He feels the kiss burn like the whisky shot at the bar that chased away an unwanted gaze, but it’s deeper than that and it chases away so much more than just eyes on his body.

It’s not just a kiss.

Not just _one_ kiss, he should say.

“I’m your favourite worst nightmare, hmm?” Stark purrs in the space between them and at Winter’s answering and wide-eyed nod he bites down on Winter’s lip just a little harder than before until they are both tasting copper.

Winter hisses in pain, and he tells himself that he doesn’t also moan at the same time.

Starks laugh tells him he wouldn’t buy it though.

“D _is_ for dangerous,” Winter breathes.

“D is for a lot of things,” Stark says softly.

Like the darkness that envelopes Winter’s vision when Stark knocks him unconscious.

Winter’s fucked if he knows how it happened though.

He just wakes up in his bed with the carnage from last night hidden beneath a black hooded sweatshirt that he knows doesn’t belong to him.

Winter sneaks into the bathroom to clean away the evidence and then hides the sweatshirt under his pillow. He doesn’t bother checking for bugs. Stark knows where they live anyway. He always does.

He thinks if he starts counting all the secrets he’s been keeping from Rogers, it will negate the kindness he’s telling himself he’s doing when he doesn’t reach for his phone to text Starkphone.

It’s not because he’s too scared to send a message. It’s not because he doesn’t know what to say.

Winter spends some time staring at the winter heath flowers and the blood stain on them.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Whatever it is feels good though.

Feels inevitable in the best way.

Winter can still feel the kiss on his lips. He doesn’t think it will ever go away.

D is also for delightful.

There’s irony in how much the song feels fitting when the guilt eventually catches up around the same time Winter was desperately replaying it all over in his head trying to chase the same heat he’d felt before.

He doesn’t know if he spends more time feeling guilty or desperate for more.

He doesn’t know if he spends more time thinking about the smell of blood from the fight or the taste of it from the kiss.

He feels more guilty about the kiss than the fight though. He’s sure about that.

(He’s not sure of anything)

Guilty or not though, Winter is very careful not to tense up when the next time Spider-Man stops by to give an update on the crime syndicate he’s been investigating see’s Deadpool at his side. He still has something to hide, never mind if he feels bad about it or not.

It wouldn’t matter if he had let his tension show though, since Rogers is there.

Everything always ends in a fight when Rogers is involved.

He can’t say that it’s self preservation that tells him he needs to protect the kid he doesn’t even like, because he nearly loses his life over the whole thing anyway. He didn’t think much. Just had the frantic fleeting thought: _That’s Starks_. And then he moves to cover the kid, who for some stupid reason thinks he should defend Deadpool --who literally cannot die.

It’s a fucking nightmare is what it is.

Luckily, Winter getting an arrow lodged in his shoulder ends it there.

“Ow,” he growls with a glare to Barton.

“Oops,” Barton answers, straight faced.

Deadpool is apparently helping with Spider-mans investigation. Winter could have put that together even if he hadn’t known about Stark going all over-protective father figure on the guy. It makes it that much more frustrating that Winter had to step in like he did.

“The leader goes by Kingpin,” Spider-Man says, “He’s had run in’s with a few other heroes this year, but no one’s gotten close enough to catch him yet. He’s pretty cautious now, it’s been hard to get anything even remotely helpful and Deadpool’s been tailing him for weeks now,” he says. “What’s worse is that he’s got a lot of political sway, so there’s no serious police investigation going on.”

“Sounds like someone else we know,” Wilson says, then, “Er, sorry…” he says to Spider-Man.

“It’s fine,” Spider-Man says in a bitter way that screams of sadness, “Mr. Stark a killer now too. Besides, I haven’t actually seen his face in years. Maybe _he_ is Kingpin,” he says sarcastic and humourless.

“Nah, I saw him the other day!” Deadpool says cheerfully, “Still sexy as ever!”

“What?” Spider-Man asks, “Why didn’t you tell me you saw Iron Man!”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Deadpool says with a wink, “I saw Tony Stark! Sans suit and everything! Damn, he is a sight,” he says dreamily.

“That’s gross, Wade!” Spider-Man groans with a dramatic face-palm.

“Right, right,” Deadpool nods like a chastised child.

Winter feels the situation slowly fuck him over, like the world is punching him in the face, but in slow motion for added effect.

“You saw Stark? What did he want?”

“Hmm…” Deadpool says, “I don’t remember now, I died at the end!”

“What?! I can’t believe him! He told me he would stay out of this!” Spider-Man exclaims. There is a real hurt in his voice that’s almost unexpected.

Winter knows Stark cares about Spider-Man, but the kid more or less denounced Stark when he started murdering civilians. The kid swears he’s lost all contact outside of ‘work’. Winter sees Romanoff detect a lie from the kid for the first time. Winter’s had his suspicion since the… _favour_.

“Nah, it wasn’t him,” Deadpool admits, “It was some other guy with him…. What was his name?” Deadpool mutters to himself, “Oh right! It was Growly!” he shouts.

Everyone looks at Deadpool like he’s crazy, but then, that’s just everyone’s resting expression when he’s in the room, Winter thinks.

“What the hell is a growly?” Winter asks.

“You! You are a Growly!”

And everyone keeps looking at Deadpool like he’s crazy and Winters heartbeat stays steady, his breathing is normal, and he raises a skeptic eyebrow at Deadpool and asks in his most flat and condescending voice, “I was there? And you’re the one who died at the end?”.

Deadpool holds up a finger, about to make a point, but he looks confused for a second, like he’s not sure where to go from there.

Just like that, the situation changes and it’s someone else getting fucked over for once.

“Well, you could’a died too, how would I know!” Deadpool says eventually but with a frown.

“Right,” Wilson says, deadpan.

Once more, Winter gets away with murder.

But he supposes he’s not really the one who killed Deadpool.

He did enough though.

_Good boy, puppy_

Winter doesn’t think he’ll be getting those words out of his head for a long, long time.

**_To_ ** **Starkphone Guy _at 14:08_**

_< <Am I still missed connection?_

_> >No_

Winter doesn’t bother to ask what he’s been promoted to.

Tells himself he doesn’t want to know.

But he can guess just fine on his own.

Winter considered what he did for Stark to be a favour. An un-willing favour. He did not consider it to be a job. A job implies reoccurrence.

Stark apparently does.

Consider it a job, that is.

It’s not all bloody flowers and evening strolls the next time though. It’s also not secretive.

Winter is on an assignment from Rogers. The only person who is _supposed_ to be giving Winter jobs. It’s not a difficult job, he’s tailing a guy who robbed a couple of ATM’s last week hoping he will lead Winter to the money.

It’s fucking stupid is what it is.

This is Spider-Man level shit.

Winter’s cursing the blond-haired bastard and everyone who has ever fucking said hello to the guy to hell and back as he wanders around the city.

Winter was a god damn sniper. He was a fucking assassin. He was a spy. He was a killer. He was the mother fucking fist of Hydra and Rogers has him playing lost and god damn found with a couple grand.

Winter’s in half a mind to find the money and use it to get the hell away from the fucker.

He won’t though.

He knows he won’t and that makes this so much more frustrating.

He’s praying to _something_ for the ground to swallow him up, for the heavens to rain down and smite them all, for the sky to fucking fall—he doesn’t care. Anything is better than this, he thinks.

It’s just his damn luck that for the first time in his entire existence the gods answer his prayers.

Iron Man swoops down and snatches him out of a piss-scented alley and Winter can only really tip his head back, look up at the sky as it approaches and flip god the bird.

Iron Man just laughs.

Winter is in such a mood that he thinks if it was any other villain, he would have fucking killed them right then and there, Rogers be damned.

It’s not though.

It’s Iron Man and Winters pissy mood does not stand up to that level of terrifying.

Still, Winter gathers enough salt to spit out, “The loop-de-loops were unnecessary,” before he succumbs completely to the fear and adrenaline that comes from being dropped on the roof of a fifty story building by a giant mechanical suit of armour housing a serial killer.

Who kissed him the last time they say each other.

“Scared of heights?” Stark smirks when the faceplate comes up.

Winter has a gun, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be fast enough to reach it before Stark repulsors him off the building.

Unless he’s here for a repeat of their last encounter.

Winter isn’t exactly sure where they stand right now. Was the kiss the kind that’s unknowingly poisonous? Or he supposed in this case it would be _knowingly_ poisoned. Was it as deadly as it felt, or will he live to get another?

He doesn’t for a second believe that just because Stark kissed him, Winter is now off the hook for all the things Stark is slowly getting retribution for. He knows that revenge is still coming.

But what he wants to know is if that kiss was part of the revenge. Part of the punishment somehow—and if it was, who was being punished by it.

Or was it just entertainment in the intermedium, a way to make the waiting game more fun for himself, since he was taking his dear sweet time with it.

Maybe it’s all of those things.

It doesn’t feel like any of them with the way it lingers on Winters mouth though.

“You weren’t busy, were you dear?” Stark croons.

“No,” Winter answers honestly.

“Lovely, and how’s the shoulder?” he asks.

“How do you know about that?” Winter counters. Stark just raises an eyebrow at him. They both can figure that out, “It’s fine,” Winter answers.

“Good,” Stark purrs, “I need you in proper working order, puppy,” he says.

“For what?” Winter shudders to ask.

“Your next job,” Stark says with a wide grin.

“You haven’t threatened me yet,” he says with a cocky expression that feels transparent so he knows it must look it too.

“I don’t have to,” he says, turning his back on Winter. Even if Winter shot him, the back of his head is still covered anyway. Winter keeps the gun where it is under his jacket and follows Stark across the rooftop.

Stark is so fucking sure, and so fucking smug, and Winter follows him anyway.

He doesn’t have to threaten Winter and they both know it.

Winter feels resigned to Stark somehow, but at the same time feels like for once in his life he is _not_ resigned to his fate.

How Stark has managed to change that, Winter doesn’t know.

He leads him to where there’s a sniper rifle set up at the ledge. It’s a discontinued Stark Industries design. One Winter recalls loving for both it’s simplicity and it’s accuracy. It was a sleek design, bolt action—archaic by Stark Industries standards but he’s never shot anything as pure and precise as that gun.

Winter has to bite his tongue to stop from asking to keep it. Instead he says, “Now I know you could do this on your own,” in a flat voice.

“I can get off on my own too, but it’s much more fun in company,” Stark leers.

Winter is momentarily caught off guard by the onslaught of unwanted images that flood his brain at that remark. He says unwanted only because it’s such an obviously inopportune time to think about Iron Man getting himself off. Then again, maybe it’s not the worst time for those thoughts.

“Is that what your doing? Getting off on this?” Winter wonders allowed. He get’s a raised brow in return. Stark takes a few steps towards him, he’s in the suit this time and he towers over Winter. Somehow there just doesn’t seem to be that much difference than the way he towers over Winter outside of it though.

“Aren’t you?” He crones softly, taking Winter’s jaw in hand.

He thinks they are both getting off on this. Thinks that’s why Stark kissed him the other night. Thinks if they had pressed more than their lips together then maybe it wouldn’t have ended with just a kiss.

Stark gives his face a little shake like he’s scolding a dog and says, “Now, down boy,” and snaps his fingers at the rifle.

Winter… Winter goes to his knees shaking with anticipation, hears Stark let out a pleased hum, doesn’t look up to meet the mans eye for more than half a second but still feels like it was too long, and then settles into position on the ground.

He wants to do this so badly. He doesn’t even know who the target is but he wants to watch through his scope as whoever it is falls to the ground and never gets back up.

He wants this and Stark knows it.

Rogers doesn’t though. Or maybe he just pretends not to know it.

God knows there is a lot of things about Winter even he himself pretends not to know about.

“You know Rogers will be wondering where I am,” Winter says surveying the area through the scope looking for the unnamed target.

“He knows,” Stark says vaguely.

Then Winter spots who he’s looking for. He immediately knows it is his target.

“That’s Kingpin,” he says out loud.

“Soon to be dead Wilson Fisk,” Stark agrees. His voice is much closer than Winter would like.

He hears Stark move beside him, feels the heat coming off of the armour and for some reason Winter always assumed the metal would be cold like his arm is cold, but it’s not. It’s warm and it gives off heat against Winter’s side.

Winter tries not to shiver and lose sight of the man in his cross hairs.

The room is filled with people, so Winter knows to wait until the man has only a few guards with him before making a shot.

Stark choses to fill the silence.

“Was it like this with Hydra?” he whispers in Winters ear, sliding warm palms down Winters arms, covering Winter’s hands in his own to cycle a round into the chamber. “When they made you pull the trigger?” Stark purrs dark and sweet and _deadly_ , “Did it feel like this when you killed them?”

Winter doesn’t need to ask to know they’re talking about Starks parents.

Winter doesn’t need to ask to know what feeling they’re talking about either.

“No,” Winter whispers honestly, “Hydra didn’t let me feel it,” he rasps.

Hydra let him feel nothing. Let him kill, let him hurt, let him destroy, but there was never any gratification from it. It never gave him a thrill. Never made his blood burn in his veins alight with excitement. Not like it does now.

He doesn’t think anything else has ever felt like this. Not before Hydra, not after.

He thinks this is a new turning point: Before Stark and after Stark, but he knows that there will never be an ‘after’ Stark.

The heated touch disappears, “Good,” he says roughly, “You didn’t deserve it,” he spits.

Winter nods minutely, keeping his eye on his target. There’s aggression in Starks voice that Winter hasn’t heard since Siberia.

_That shield doesn’t belong to you! You don’t deserve it._

“But you deserve this,” Stark adds softly, with an almost curious lilt to his tone, like he is confused by how gentle the words sound too.

Winter doesn’t know if he means that he’s deserving of a reward or a punishment and he doesn’t know if he ever will.

Fisk is alone with a single guard at the door.

Winter takes the shot.

He cycles another round seamlessly and waits for the bodyguard’s eyes to scan the rooftops before taking him out too.

It’s overkill like before, but this time Winter gets to watch another body fall with a silent thud.

“Oh, I’m definitely promoting you,” Stark whispers sultry in Winter’s ear.

“To what?” he hesitates to ask.

“Attack dog, Frosty. I’m promoting you to attack dog,” he purrs.

Winter half expects Stark to kiss him again, half expects to be pushed off the building, and half expects to be left up here for Fisk’s men to find.

None of those things happen.

Instead Stark snags an arm around Winter’s waist again and deposits him gently in the alley he was taken from an hour ago.

“By the way,” Stark says as he’s turning to take off again, “You said you like old westerns, but how do you feel about science fiction?” he asks as he flies away.

Winter doesn’t think he means the genre.

He could be wrong though, he thinks while he listens to the song.

_I must admit you gave me somethin' momentarily_

_In which I could believe._

Winter didn’t understand that part.

_But the hand of harsh reality's un-gloved_

_And it's on its way back in to scoop you up._

He understood that at least.

_But not on my watch._

_I wanna stay with you, my love_

_The way some science fiction does._

Which Winter didn’t understand at all.

_I wanna make a simple point about peace and love_

_But in a sexy way where it's not obvious._

There wasn’t much Winter was finding obvious in this song.

_Highlight dangers and send out hidden messages_

_The way some science fiction does._

He understood hidden messages at least.

_I've got the world on a wire_

_In my little mirror mirror on the wall_

He understood having the world on a wire too.

_So I tried to write a song to make you blush_

_But I've a feeling that the whole thing_

_May well just end up too clever for its own good_

_The way some science fiction does._

Winter thought maybe this latest hidden message was too clever for its own good too.

If he’s honest with himself though, his heart isn’t beating listening to the song because he doesn’t understand it.

For some reason, Winter picks up his phone.

Starkphone wanted an update on the leash situation, if he recalls.

_< <I just got a promotion_

_> >Congrats_

_> >Does it come with a new ride?_

_< <I think so_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, it's not really spideypool, but Peter is 20 if you do ship it :)
> 
> The song Winter quotes is "D is for Dangerous". I felt this really describes Winters feelings about Tony because it's both done in third person as if to distance himself from the admission, and also talks about how he feels the guilt catch up to him only after it's over and Tony's gone, as well as he is desperate for it to happen again. There is also the line "He's nearing the brink but he thinks first the parallel universe perhaps could be the perfect scene" which I think is Winter's way of saying that he can imagine a life with Tony in another world. 
> 
> Tony's song is "Science Fiction" and it's the turning point for them both. Everything leading up to this has been a game, and Tony's intentions were anything but pure, but now Winter is starting to grow on him. Tony felt a moment of something real, and while he is still certain that there is a level of performance and fiction to this thing between them, there are moments when it stops feeling like make-believe. This is also a darker version of Tony, and so insecurities are coming out in a more dangerous fashion. He's getting possessive of Winter. "But the hand of harsh reality's un-gloved/And it's on its way back in to scoop you up/But not on my watch". This can mean both that Tony's refusing to let the game end, refusing to acknowledge the reality of this, and it also means that he's not letting Steve have Winter back now that Tony's starting to get his own hold on him.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos! I super appreciate it!
> 
> I'm still interested in knowing what songs you think are fitting, so let me know! :)


	5. One of Those Games You're Going to Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a doozy! Sorry it's so long, I really should have divided this and last chapter better, but what's done is done.
> 
> Trigger Warning!!! This is where the "Graphic depictions of violence" warning comes in, followed directly (and I mean very much directly) by the explicit sexual content tag. Lots of blood and death and sex.

“Can I keep it?”

“No”

“If he can’t keep it, can I?”

“Now, now boys. Let me check it for bugs”

“It has my name on it, fuckin’ vultures”

They had to move again, Winter knew, but he couldn’t even be mad about it. The topic of debate made it all worth it.

It was beautiful.

It had his name on it.

It was a Stark made submachine gun.

And it had _Winters name on it_.

He loved his Uzi, he did. But she was _old_. This was…. This was what Winter dreamed of. It’s the only gun worthy of replacing one in his existing arsenal.

SI didn’t make weapons anymore, but apparently _Stark_ did.

It came in a box of winter heath but wrapped in silk to keep it clean. Real silk because Stark is a pretentious fuck or a fancy bitch, depending on which vigilante you asked.

And it had Winter’s name on it.

 _Winter_ right next to a little snowflake.

It was Winter’s and he was keeping it. Rogers could pry it out of his cold dead hands if he wanted to. He didn’t care that this was a gun meant for killing hard and fast and Winter was supposed to be limiting his death toll, it was a good damn gun.

 _It had his name on it_.

It’s a gift, or a reward, or something that marks Winter as Stark’s and he’s not sure which it is or what he wants it to be.

This thing between Winter and Stark… It was supposed to be entertainment. It was supposed to be a game. It was supposed to be a way for Stark to get to Rogers and the others. It was supposed to be about revenge.

It was supposed to be self-preservation. It was supposed to be a way to make himself appealing. It was supposed to be about usefulness. It was supposed to be about delaying the inevitable.

Now, Winter’s not so sure.

He’s not sure and he’s listening to _Science Fiction_ like it might make this all make sense some how.

All it does is leave him wanting and feeling guilty and wanting even more because it’s all just _wrong_.

It feels incredibly right.

Just like his new gun as he weighs it in his hand.

“No one is keeping it. It’s a trap,” Rogers says in his Captain America voice of self-righteousness. “Stark isn’t in the business of arming his enemies,” he says.

“Anymore,” Barton chimes in.

Winters fingers twitch in irritation.

He’s not sure why.

“He’s just fucking with us, relax,” Winter says with a fake smile.

“You’re only saying that so you can keep it,” Rogers frowns.

“Oh, I’m keeping it anyway,” Winter says in a rare moment of disobedience that has Wilson doing a double take, “it has my name on it”.

Winter takes the box and turns on his heal.

“That’s not your name,” he hears Rogers mumble under his breath. It’s quiet, but Winter was still meant to hear it—testing him for another outburst most likely. He ignores it like he’s supposed to.

When Winter takes the whole gun apart, he finds a single tracker inside.

He puts it back where he finds it and reassembles the gun.

He doesn’t know why he keeps the tracker on, but he thinks Stark might need to know where his new attack dog is going forward.

Winter knows his strategy of ignoring the problem hasn’t been working very well lately, and the self-preservation excuse is getting a little thin—but he doesn’t know what happens next.

He doesn’t have nearly enough time to think about it though.

It’s a fucking hell of a week.

He gets kidnapped very briefly. By Hydra.

It’s not Winter’s shining moment, that’s for sure. He’s not sure he regrets what happened though. Although he likely should.

It begins with Rogers stupid ‘no-killing-Nazi’s’ rule that Winter knows didn’t exist _before_ he showed up because Rogers used to kill Nazi’s for a living. It begins with not killing the Nazi’s that really want Winter either dead, or brain dead, depending on the day.

This particular instance see’s the group of Hydra agents that want Winter brain dead.

It’s fine though, because the words, the triggers, the brainwashing, it doesn’t work anymore. He’s pretty used to hearing them anyway. Every time he encounters Hydra really. Fake Russian accents and a handful of mispronounced nonsense.

It doesn’t so much as slow him down these days.

What does slow him down from the already agonizingly slow feat of non-lethal combat with four Hydra goons is a _real_ Russian accent.

He doesn’t know who the man is, but he knows Winter. Knows the words and he says them so perfectly pronounced that it gives Winter a pause as loathe as he is to admit it.

It would have been fine, but Winter is trying not to kill anybody. He wants to keep his shiny new gun and he thinks if the first mission he’s on after fighting to keep it see’s him using it to murder five guys, Rogers might take it away.

It takes six blows to the head before Winter is dizzy enough to drag away.

He also thinks it may have been fine if Winter had his comm in at the time, but like he usually does, he had muted himself.

His vision clears in the back of a moving van with Russian guy sitting across from him, chewing gum noisily. He still has his mask, but he’s missing his holster and most of his knives.

“Where’s Rogers?” Winter grumbles. His hands are cast in metal in front of himself, but that’s all.

“He’s not coming to save you, soldat,” the guy answers.

 _Good_ , Winter thinks and then head butts the man, _I can kill these fuckers_.

Winter twists and maneuvers in the small space of the van, wraps the heavy chain on his wrists around the Russian guys throat, delights in the sound of him choking on his chewing gum before he feels the satisfactory crunch of his windpipe.

Winter uses the body as a shield to crowd the other fumbling goon against the wall and get his fingers in beady eyes. He’s pressing harder and harder, and then the van comes to a jerky halt that forces Winter’s thumbs the rest of the way into the mans skull, either killing him or rendering him brain dead too.

Winter hangs on to his human shield long enough to kick the door open, finding another van with four more men pointing guns towards, but not at him.

Iron Man lands in between Winter and the men.

“Sorry guys, but I called dibs,” the mechanical voice says cheerfully.

He has Winter’s gear in his hand, which answers the question on how he found out Winter was missing. He tosses it to him without looking to see if Winter’s even there.

After that it’s a bit of a fire fight. Winter tosses his meat-shield, rolls out of the van, and Iron Man spares a total of _three seconds_ calibrating a repulsor beam at Winter.

It slices through the restraints on his wrists without so much as scorching the Vibranium.

Another van pulls up with six more goons, and Winter doesn’t even think about playing around with the non-lethal spots when he opens fire with his new gun.

It shoots beautifully.

“I can see you smiling. You like it? Yeah, you like it,” Stark banters.

He can’t actually see Winter smiling because his face is covered, but Winter definitely is.

When it’s down to two men, Winter see’s Stark use a beam of energy to sever both legs of one of them, a beam Winter is acutely aware of the strength. Winter preys upon the last one, stalking up to him, deflecting bullets with his arm. When he swings a punch, Winter catches it, breaks the hand and twists the arm back behind the man. He uses a small throwing knife to slit the man’s throat so he’ll take longer to bleed out.

“So much wasted potential, Rogers,” Stark shakes his head as if to himself.

Rogers is not there, and Winter wonders if Stark has hacked the comms again, or if maybe he had Winters.

“Is this supposed to be a rescue or…?” Winter asks faux casual and reloading his weapons.

“Do you think I can save you?” Stark seems to ask seriously, catching Winter off guard, “Never mind, no it’s not, it’s a kidnapping,” he derails cheerfully, “Or a trap, really,” he adds.

“A trap for who?” Winter can figure it out, they both know.

“Three guesses!” Stark says with a smirk in his voice. He’s not taking the faceplate off, which means he knows, just like Winter knows, that Barton is on the south-eastern rooftop waiting.

“Barton,” Winter answers.

“Such a good boy,” Stark purrs and moves into Winters space. He lets the praise wash over him even as Iron Man moves into a fighting stance. They’re lucky. Barton can’t read either of their lips. Can only read their body language. The tension and anticipation. He doesn’t know what they’re anticipating.

“And I’m bait?” Winter queries, cocking his handgun.

“Oh no, you’re an _accomplice_ ,” Stark hisses and fires two of those sonic blasts one after the other.

It makes him stumble back, lose his footing.

The fight—the dance—they do is nothing more than a way to get Barton in range. Winter knows this and yet he lets it happen. Let’s Stark lead. The blows are almost gentle compared to what he knows they could be, and Winter only matches the strength that Stark puts forth, doesn’t try and exceed it.

He’s not telling himself anything. He’s not lying. He’s not even thinking about it.

When Barton is in range, when he tries to join the dance, Stark delivers a sharp punch to the back of the blonde’s head. Winter seems to forget how to do more than watch.

Stark heaves the unconscious archer over his shoulder, flips back the faceplate and winks at him before taking off.

Winter _knows_ he’s meant to follow.

So, he doesn’t hesitate and gives chase. He could call for backup, but he knows they will be too late. He knows he’s going to be too late as well but that doesn’t stop him from going after them.

It doesn’t take him long to track them down.

 _Stark Tower_.

The notorious, uncatchable killer is living in the same building he was living in five years ago.

Where the Avengers used to live. Where they used to meet, congregate, talk, laugh, touch, and exist together.

Winter’s never been in it.

He knew it was once Stark Tower, filled to the brim with SI offices and labs. Then, it was Avengers Tower, half full of heroes and friends. Then, it was Stark Tower again, eighty-eight percent Pepper Pott’s the news said.

The sign reads with the SI logo, with Pepper Pott’s company, but there is no one there.

It’s dead inside, filled with dead air and dead silence and dead memories.

It’s like the skeleton of a tree.

All eighty-eight percent at least.

Winter finds the remaining twelve to be very much alive.

At least, one of the occupants is very much alive. The other is dying lying beaten and bloody on the shining marble floor.

“One for every time I could have let you die, but didn’t,” Stark is saying. He’s not wearing the suit anymore, but he has a gauntlet on his hand and it’s what he’s aiming at Barton on the floor, “and one for every time I could have killed you but didn’t,” he goes on, and Winter watches as the repulsor charges up with a low whine and Barton tries to crawl away with too many angles that must be too many broken bones.

Winter feels like he’s privy to something private, something sacred. He feels unworthy of seeing this.

This is Starks revenge. This goes far beyond anything Winter can understand, because like every empty floor of dead memories Winter passed, he see’s nothing but the end credits.

He feels intrusive. He should leave, he thinks.

He can’t tear his eyes away.

Barton cries out in pain, it’s an agonized scream but it doesn’t lack anger either. Barton is not as broken as he appears.

Winter wants to see him break. See him give up the same way Winter is always meant to give up.

He stays in the shadows of the room and watches as Stark delivers burn after burn to a struggling body. Watches as he lets Barton try and crawl away and laugh when the body cannot manage to drag itself across the floor.

Winter doesn’t make a sound, but he wants to. It doesn’t matter though, Stark knows he’s there.

“Winter,” Stark purrs, “Come here, puppy,” he calls over his shoulder.

Winter steps out of the shadows and he suddenly understands what Stark meant when he said Winter was an accomplice. Why Stark has allowed Winter this despite having no claim to Barton’s suffering.

Barton’s face is a movie screen of emotion. Confusion, relief, fear, betrayal.

Winter being here must make this all the sweeter for Stark.

He crosses the distance separating them when Stark extends an uncovered hand. Let’s Stark card rough fingers through his hair and let’s Stark pull the mask free of his face.

“Good boy,” he praises and Winter looks up at him with what might be blatant adoration, but may also just be adrenaline.

“You brainwash him?” Barton coughs out.

Stark looks down his nose at the body on the ground, “No, Clint,” he says, “You just weren’t _watching your back_ ,” he grins with too many teeth.

“ _Mother fucker_ ,” Barton hisses, “How long?” he growls, “Is he how you got to Wanda, you fucker!?” Barton demands.

Stark laughs, “No, no—this is a recent development actually. No, I had someone else help me with that,” he says.

Winter looks up from where he’s watching Barton struggle to get up.

“Just a friend,” Stark smirks, “No where near as pretty as you, snowflake,” he coos.

Winter doesn’t know why it soothes him, nor why he believes him, but he does.

“Who was it?” Barton asks, voice cracking.

Stark looks too pleased. He looks insane. He looks beautiful.

“You’ll never know, Clint,” he says darkly.

“Fuck you! We were your friends, you sick fuck!” he shouts.

“No, Clint,” Stark tuts, “You were _mean_ to my friends,” he says.

Barton continues babbling, but Winter doesn’t pay him any mind.

Stark has a hammer in his hand. He’s tossing it up and down, catching it in the hand not trained with a repulsor beam on Barton. The silver head gleams in the city lights below the same way he does. Both are splattered with blood already.

“Do you know how to paralyze someone, puppy?” he asks.

Barton’s blubbering increases in pitch.

“Yes,” he says on a rasp.

Stark flips the hammer once more before offering Winter the handle.

Winter’s shaking when he accepts it.

“God,” Stark breathes, “You love this, don’t you?” he whispers like he can’t quite believe it himself.

Winter understands the feeling.

He can’t believe he gets to do this.

He’s smiling, and there is an irony in knowing it’s the first real smile Barton has ever seen on his face as he brings the hammer down across his spine until Barton isn’t crawling away anymore, just screaming.

Winter didn’t come here to save anyone.

Stark calls him back with a hand in his hair. It keeps him on his knees next to the taller man. Winter likes the feeling of Starks fingers in his hair.

Barton doesn’t feel the arrow that Stark inserts into the crushed bones of his spine, but Winter watches with rapt attention.

Stark places the mistletoe in Barton’s mouth while he’s still breathing and he waits, and waits, and waits until Barton’s eyes lose the fire and resignation takes its place. Stark’s hand tightens in Winters hair as he delivers a killing blow in the form of a repulsor blast to the back of Barton’s head.

Winter shudders. He’s sweating. Heart pounding in his chest.

It’s not because he’s now splattered in blood and tissue, though that may be a contributing factor.

Stark tilts Winters head up with the hand still in his hair, looks down at him with gleaming, bright eyes and blown black pupils. His smile is what nightmares are made of, Winter thinks. He can’t get enough.

The hand still covered with the Iron Man gauntlet comes up to Winters face. The metal is hot against his skin as he smears the blood across his face. Traces Winters parted lips with his thumb.

“Now, what to do with you,” he muses, and Winter wonders what his own death will be like, “It’s a shame you heal so fast, otherwise Rogers might believe you were innocent,” he says in what could be a casual tone, but his voice is thick and low with the desire that’s clearly written across his face as he looks down at Winter.

“Can always mark me up again,” Winter whispers.

“I can do anything I want to you, Winter,” Stark says darkly.

He can and they both know it.

“Please,” Winter hears fall brokenly from his own mouth.

Winter will never get over how much Stark smiles. He thinks it must come from being free of Rogers.

He feels that smile against his lips even as teeth sink in until flesh splits. That seems to be a favourite thing of Stark’s to do.

He is rough when he pushes Winter onto his back, away from the body he has so artfully displayed, but it’s not far enough away that they escape landing in the growing pool of blood. Winter doesn’t much care though.

Winter feels himself surrender to Stark, but he knows while the other man may give into the pleasure between their bodies, he will never relinquish any amount of control. Not with the way the gauntlet still adorns his hand, not with the way his fingers sink into the tender wound Winter knows is trying to heal on the back of his head, not with the way blood wells up across their tongues.

Winter thinks he has an epiphany just then, thinking about giving in and giving up.

Winter has given in for Stark, but he has _given_ _up_ for Rogers.

Given in to the burning ache in his scalp and the taste of copper in his mouth, given in to the white-out pleasure of Starks thigh against the hardness in Winters pants. Given in to his touch, his smile, his voice, his control.

Winter’s given up for Rogers the same way that Barton had given up for Stark. With death in his eyes.

But Winter doesn’t think about Rogers now. He thinks about the man on top of him. The man who is stripping Winter of his holster, and his jacket, and his shirt. The man licking and biting and bruising Winters body in ways no one ever has.

He’s never had teeth sink so sharply into his neck, never felt fingernails leave trails of burning skin and cooling blood down his chest. He has felt metal fingers skate over his hardness, and he’s felt them on his tongue, but the metal has never been hot, never tasted of the rust that these ones resemble.

“You’re being so good,” Stark tells him, and Winter feels his eyes burn with how _real_ it feels.

Stark slides his fingers across his tongue without finesse, seeming to delight in mixing the blood from his split lip with his spit.

It’s what he uses to open Winter up for himself, twisting those metal fingers inside Winters body and it’s familiar in a way that Winter knows the next time he does this alone it will leave him wanting.

It’s _all_ he uses to open him, and it’s not enough and it’s just right, and he sinks into Winter roughly, but he bites down over his nipple at the same time and Winter feels no pain at all for all the ways his body is alight with it.

Winter’s eyes roll into the back of his head as Stark bottoms out, and something tells him he really shouldn’t take his eyes off the predator of a man on top of him, but Winter thinks it makes it feel that much better.

The friction burns, but Winter burns _everywhere_ anyway.

“Fuck, Stark,” Winter hisses, letting his head fall back to _thunk_ against the floor. He can’t hold it up against the onslaught of sensations the other man is giving him.

Stark chuckles low in his ear, and Winter thinks this position, with one of his legs over Starks shoulder and pressed to nearly bend Winter in half, this puts all Starks other looming to shame.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to be that formal,” he leers, “Not like this,” he says with a little hitch of his hips that has Winter seeing stars. Maybe that’s just Stark though, “I’d say we’re on a first name basis, wouldn’t you?”.

Winter nods frantically, “Yeah, yes, yes sir,” he slurs.

Stark chuckles darkly, “Well,” he says with a slow thrust that finds Winters prostate with the kind of efficiency he would have assumed needed to be laser guided, “that works too”.

Winter is a very silent person. Stark is very loud.

Somehow, Winter is the one crying out and Stark is the one who makes so few sounds that every little grunt and gasp cuts through the air like a bullet piercing his chest.

Winter’s hands feel numb and it’s a challenge just to hold on to Stark’s shoulders as he’s pounding Winter into the floor. Their bodies are slick with sweat, but there’s blood too, Winter realises when red handprints appear in the wake of his fumbling down Starks chest.

The arc reactor sits almost delicately in his chest. Winter knows that like his name on this tower, Stark had removed it only to gain it back again after losing everything else.

The blue light is misleading in its cool calm.

Winter knows the heat it brings. It’s the heat that is burning Winter up now. It’s Starks heat. Winter doesn’t know if Stark get’s his heat from the device, or the device from him. Doesn’t know if he can separate them in his mind. Can’t imagine one without the other even knowing there was a version in time where that was the case, just as he can’t imagine Stark restrained by Rogers’ will even knowing it has happened.

Winters flesh hand skirts dangerously around the edge of the metal and it feels like playing with fire while drenched in gasoline. Winter thinks he can hear the mechanics humming under Starks skin.

The closer Winter’s hand comes, leaving bloody trails in it’s wake, the harder Stark hips thrust into him and the closer the metal glad hand moves to Winters throat silently threatening, but warning all the same.

Stark doesn’t look _human_.

He doesn’t feel human either.

Winter is strong, and his body is resilient and inhuman in its own right, but the way Stark presses Winter into the floor and bends Winter, he thinks he could break him if Stark wanted to.

When Starks hand closes over Winter’s throat, Winter meets his eye and covers the reactor with his own. He see’s the light shining through his fingers and thinks they might just be beams of the parallel universes that Stark keeps inside himself.

He also thinks he might come.

Stark—Tony, whoever this creature of a man is, squeezes at Winter’s throat and he thinks he would deserve it if he did decide to crush Winter windpipe, but he knows if he’s going to do it, he’ll do it without the gauntlet so he can feel it in the flesh, like Winter did when he killed his parents.

Winter feels like a monster, but he’s nothing compared to whatever it is that Tony Stark has become.

He changes his rhythm to something even more punishing, and Winter can feel how much he’s going to hurt after this and feels his cock jump, neglected and drooling on his stomach.

He can’t breathe, and he feels tingly all over and he wants to come so badly, but he doesn’t want it to end. He wonders if it will matter if he does, or if Stark will keep fucking him like this. He seems like he could.

“Tony,” he rasps desperately.

The rhythm of relentless thrusting into Winter’s prostate stutters briefly and Stark—Tony’s lips part on a silent moan.

He wonders when the last time someone called him by that name was.

Tony’s hand lets up enough to keep Winter conscious and his other hand drifts down but doesn’t touch Winter where he needs it. He takes Winter’s metal hand and leads it there instead.

“Be a good boy and come for me, just like that,” he husks, circling Winters cock in the cold digits.

“Fuck,” Winter hisses and then lets out a low moan.

His hand is freezing compared to the heat of their bodies, the grip is just this side of too tight and the metal in unrelenting.

It _hurts_.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Winter hears himself cry out. It’s good, it’s perfect. This man is perfect.

He knows exactly what Winter wants, what he needs.

Winter comes on a silent scream.

Tony is staring at him like Winter is _prey_. Like he’s never seen anything he wants to sink his teeth in more.

Winter moans weakly, tilts his hips up, plants his other leg around Tony’s waist and lets himself be contorted into the best shape for the man making a home in Winter’s body.

Tony bites down on Winters lip and he thinks it breaks skin all over again when Tony’s hips jerk forward, burying as deep as he can and shuddering against him with his own release.

The kiss he gives Winter before pulling out and away is almost sweet but for the way he licks over the wound there making it bleed and sting.

“This _is_ more fun in company,” Winter mumbles when they are both lying naked in a pool of drying blood, the scent of it thick in his nose.

“You’re cute,” Stark chuckles, “Go to sleep,” he mumbles covering Winters eyes with a hand.

Winter snorts a quiet laugh but allows it. He shouldn’t fall asleep, just like he shouldn’t have taken his eyes off Stark, just like he shouldn’t have followed, just like he shouldn’t have let Stark lead Barton in.

Winter falls asleep faster than he ever has.

He wakes like he’s got a bad hangover though, and he realises that it’s because his sleep was an unnatural one. Or at least part of it was.

He knows this because he has no memory after falling asleep with Stark and now he’s fully dressed, covered in blood and slumped on the doorstep of the safehouse.

He also can barely stand, and he can’t tell if he’s just been fucked six ways to Sunday, or if maybe he’s been drugged.

He bangs on the door until someone comes though.

“Bucky! Oh my god. Sam!” Rogers voice sounds _shrill_.

Drugged, he thinks when he opens his mouth and his words come out garbled, “Barton,” he manages, “Stark”.

Winter doesn’t feel bad, he doesn’t feel anything really, when he grips Rogers arm just a little too tight and shakes his head.

“Was too late”.

Winter thinks it’s a shame Tony isn’t there to see Romanoff’s face.

It’s almost as good as Barton’s was when Winter accepted the hammer and brought it down over and over…

He wonders what her death will be like as he limps up the stairs. It’s exaggerated, but Winter really does have a bit of a limp from last night. He needs to get cleaned up before they notice the blood’s not his.

He can hear them shouting at each other. He can hear crying. He hears a door slam.

Winter watches the blood swirl down the drain for a long time. The water is freezing by the time the pink disappears.

There’s a message alert on his phone when he gets dressed in the mystery hoody that still smells a bit like Deadpool’s blood. Though that might just be in his head.

**_From_ ** **Starkphone _Guy at 07:08_**

_> >I also accept daddy and boss_

_> >In case Starkphone guy is a mouthful_

_< <What about sir_

_> >That works too_

Winter knows he comes across withdrawn afterwards, and they all think it’s because he couldn’t save Barton, but in reality it’s because he could have. At least in theory.

He could have tried, but then again, he would have died too, wouldn’t he have?

Winter tells himself that at least. That it was a ‘can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ situation. He knows that’s not what it was though.

Winter wanted to be there.

He doesn’t feel guilty. Not like he should, he knows.

That’s what he feels guilty about. Like with Deadpool and Fisk and Doom.

He’s also withdrawn because he’s so lost in his own head lately.

Stark has become Tony.

They’ve _fucked_.

Bloody and raw and beautiful.

And Winter wants _more_.

He doesn’t deserve more, he knows.

That would be okay, he thinks. It’s just that he doesn’t want it to _end_ anymore.

He knows he doesn’t deserve any more pleasure than what Tony has decided he can have, and Winter likes it that way. The problem is that Winter wants to earn more, and more, and more. He never wants to stop earning pleasure from Tony and it hits him so hard and fast he has to wonder if maybe this isn’t as new of a development as he’s telling himself it is.

He’s anxious and excited and a mess waiting for the next call where Iron Man shows up, and it comes just a few days later.

Just in time for all the evidence of their encounter to fade from his body.

Except that Winter get’s _benched_.

“No, Buck—Winter,” Rogers says, “Just stay back this time. We’ll call you in if we need to,” he says.

He thinks for a second maybe they figured it out, but he knows if they had, it would be much worse than this.

So Winter shuts up and stays back.

Then it happens again, but it’s not a mission with Iron Man, it’s some little goblin dude, and Romanoff spits, “Steve says you need to _recover_ ,” and walks away.

Winter realizes he’s being punished.

Punished for hesitating with Hydra, for killing those goons, for not seeing the trap, for not being fast enough. _For not calling in the team_.

That was his biggest perceived fuck up. He didn’t call for backup and then Barton died.

Winter’s benched for a week before he’s called on by his other employer. Winter’s sitting outside on the steps smoking even though it does nothing for him. It’s three in the morning and it’s Tony and not Iron man and not Stark that comes for him.

He walks by with the hood of his designer rain-jacket up, asks Winter for a light, and then Winter’s following his retreating form into the drizzle.

Winter gets a little more caught up in his own head then, because Tony grabs his chin and kisses him like their lives depend on it before he sends Winter to interrupt a delivery truck of champagne headed for a gala.

No lives are lost though.

Winter thinks he’s quite literally kissed Tony like his life depended on it before, but this feels different.

“Don’t go to the gala,” Tony says after Winter has left a complicated little round device in the back of the truck.

“Yes sir,” Winter says, it comes out more flirtatious than subservient though.

Tony kisses him again, right up against the side of the safehouse. He can’t seem to make up his mind about holding Winters hips with an iron grip, or a fluttering caress.

He pulls away and shoves Winter against the bricks, “Stay,” he says roughly.

Winter nods obediently.

“Good boy,” and then he’s gone again, and Winter is left sitting outside in the drizzling rain smoking cigarettes that do nothing for him.

Wondering why his heart is still beating so fast.

Winter doesn’t go to the gala, but Wilson and Romanoff do.

Winter instead has to sit and listen to stupid old music with Rogers.

“What do you listen to then?” Rogers asks when Winter’s pinched expression is impossible to ignore.

He just shrugs, he doesn’t want to share, “Stark says I have bad taste anyway,” he jokes.

“What does Stark know?” Rogers scoffs and looks away into the distance.

Winter opts for a joke, “Isn’t he like the leading expert on the future though? Being a futurist?”.

“He’s nothing,” Rogers snaps at him and it makes Winter flinch. Rogers doesn’t even look at him.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Winter tries softly.

“Yeah, you and Stark have that in common,” Rogers hisses, “Always trying to lighten the mood,” he stands and leaves.

Winter doesn’t feel as hurt as he knows he’s supposed to being compared to the guy who’s just killed their friend.

When Wilson and Romanoff get back, they are tripping balls on hallucinogenics that poisoned the champagne. Winter feels very proud of himself.

“Why… why did Stark pick you?” Romanoff mumbles, staring at something over Winter’s shoulder.

“For what?” he asks. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t think she will be able to tell what he’s thinking if he engages her right now.

“To be last…” she says and Winter realises she’s known all along that they’re never going to escape Iron Man. He supposes that makes sense, there is only so much denial one person can carry, “why you? You’re the broken one. Stark… Stark doesn’t like broken people…” she bats at whatever she’s staring at nearly clipping Winter in the face, “He likes to be the most broken… no time for other… people’s problems,” she sighs. “But you are a problem. You are the most broken. More broken than him”.

“Everybody is broken,” Winter says.

He tries not to wonder about it too. Tony is not broken, not anymore. He get’s less broken every time he kills someone, Winter thinks. Winter is still broken. Is still a problem. For more than just Rogers now, it seems.

He trades for babysitting Wilson after that, but it’s not much better.

“He loves you, man,” Wilson smiles, “I can see it,” he motions wildly at Rogers in the kitchen.

“I’m sure,” Winter says noncommittedly.

“Just don’t know why,” he mumbles, still smiling but staring at the ceiling then.

Winter doesn’t know either.

Another week and he’s finally allowed out on missions.

His heart is pounding when he see’s Iron Man in the distance. His body humming with excitement when Iron Man picks a fight with him again.

He finds himself ignoring his gun in favour of hand to hand, wanting to feel the unforgiving strength of the metal against him. Landing blows, gripping tight, grappling, shoving, pinning him down.

It’s not that Winter wants to go easy on Iron Man, he just wants to be close, to be personal, to _feel_.

He feels so much for Tony already.

“I really just want to take this and smash it into pieces,” Iron Man is saying cheerfully, armoured hand gripping Winter’s masked face where he’s pinned to the ground on his back. The position is achingly familiar and Winter feels his cock stir with it.

He doesn’t know if Tony means his mask or his face. Can’t tell without seeing the other mans expression.

He’s almost gentle when he tears the mask off this time.

Winter blinks up at him, breathing heavy through his mouth. He licks his lips. Thinks about the last kiss they shared. Wonders if Tony has made up his mind yet about an iron grip or a tentative caress.

Wonders if there is maybe more that Tony is waring with in his mind, like Winter is.

“You gonna show me yours?” Winter asks.

Every time that Winter has been unmasked in Tony’s company, the other man has revealed his own face. He wonders why that is briefly, before wondering why this time is different when Tony—when Stark, replies in what almost sounds sincerely like an apology to someone, though he’s fucked if he knows to who.

“Sorry sweetheart,” his voice is gentle, unlike the hand he’s gripping Winter’s face with, “I’d much rather keep on the balaclava”.

And then he just… flies away.

If the last hidden message was too clever for it’s own good, than Winter thinks maybe this is just indecipherable.

Except that it isn’t.

It’s a slap in the face.

It’s a realization, it’s an admission, it’s the beginning of something more than a game, and it’s the end of it all.

_Running off over next door's garden_

_Before the hour is done_

_It's more a question of feeling_

_Than it is a question of fun_.

It was always fun. It was always a game. That was never in question. Winter hadn’t thought that feelings would be brought into question though. But maybe he had. Maybe his feelings have been teetering on the edge of some unasked question’s answer for a while.

_The confidence is the balaclava_

_I'm sure you'll baffle 'em good_

The mask was confidence to Winter, just as the suit was confidence to Tony. Winter was something different under the mask, but he had always assumed Tony to be the same with and without the suit. It really was baffling to consider Tony may still have secrets left.

_Will the ending reek of salty cheeks_

_And runny makeup alone?_

_Or will blood run down the face_

_Of a boy bewildered and scorned?_

_Or you'll find yourself in a skirmish_

_Where you wish you'd never been born._

The ending. Winter keeps wondering about the ending. He assumed that Tony had that all planned out. Tony was the one in control here, Winter knew. What could it mean that Tony is wondering about the ending too? Besides the obvious, he supposed.

_You tie yourself to the tracks_

_And there isn't no going back_

_And it's wrong, wrong, wrong_

_But we'll do it anyway 'cause we love a bit of trouble._

Winter knows that he’s hitched himself to a sinking ship, he has from the very beginning. He knows there isn’t a way back from this. He still loved it. Still loved the wrongness of it too.

_Are you pulling her from a burning building_

_Or throwing her to the sharks?_

_Can only hope that the ending is as pleasurable as the start._

“Do you think I can save you?” That is what Tony had asked so sincerely before they had killed Barton together. This uncertainty in Tony, this is what the suit hides. This is the secret. Tony doesn’t know what he’s doing with Winter any more than Winter does.

_That's right, he won't let her out his sight._

But Tony knows he has him and has known that a lot longer than Winter has.

_Now the shaggers perform_

_And the daggers are drawn_

_Who's the crooks in this crime?_

A common question in their lives as villain and vigilante. It’s such an arbitrary line, Winter thinks. Such an easy thing to lose track of. If only Winter knew which crime he was referring.

_Well, you'll be able to boast_

_Of the day of the most_

_Flawless heist of all time._

Whatever crime it was, Winter thinks he’s made off with something quite valuable. He thinks he knows what that might be.

_You knew that it'd be trouble_

_Right before the very first kiss_

_Quiet, unassuming_

_But you heard that they were the naughtiest._

Hadn’t that been all part of the fun? The dreams of naughtiness even before they had gone so far?

_She pleaded with you to take it off_

_But you resisted and fought_

_But sorry, sweetheart, I'd much rather_

_Keep on the balaclava_

If the balaclava, if the mask, if the suit was the confidence, then why had Winter ever seen Tony without it?

Winter could guess, but then again, why was Tony putting it back on?

Rogers finds Winter still lying there, staring up at the sky like it held the answers almost ten minutes later.

“Buck? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Winter hears his voice, hears the flatness in it.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. He doesn’t know at all.

He thinks he just got dumped though.

Funny, he never even knew they were in love.

He supposes that was the point.

Maybe Winter gave Stark more than just a _moment_ of something to believe in. Maybe that was too much.

He didn’t know who it was that Tony—that Stark, deemed undeserving of it, only that he had.

Winter doesn’t raise a hand to Stark the next time they fight _three weeks later_.

Stark can’t seem to decide between repulsoring Winter in the head or walking away any more than he could decide about the level of pressure to hold onto Winters hips. Onto Winter.

“Isn’t it hard to make up your mind?” Winter mumbles bitterly, laying there on a rooftop and refusing to look up from his scope. He’s just surveying. He’s just losing his damn mind.

“I’m not losing,” Stark doesn’t sound so confident right then. Funny that he’s still in the suit when he says it.

“I thought you were an honest man?” Winter says, sparing a single glance.

“I lied,” Stark says.

Winter hears the repulsor whine and he tenses this time, because he doesn’t want it to come anymore.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Did you think Tony would actually let himself have a good thing? Absolutely not. Tony is shit at feelings.
> 
> Meaning behind Balaclava: For one, a balaclava is a ski mask for anyone who doesn't know. Basically, last chapter Tony realises he has real feelings for Winter, and everything is lovely up until Tony panics. He starts to fear that he is making Winter's life with the rogues harder by singling him out and letting him help with Barton's murder. "Are you pulling her from a burning building or throwing her to the sharks". Tony wants the best for his little murder puppy, but he's afraid that he isn't it. By telling Winter he'd rather keep the mask on, he's distancing himself from the feelings and turning it back into the game it started as. 
> 
> And yes, Tony has been eavesdropping on all the conversations happening in the safehouse. 
> 
> Winter leaves his message in the form of a quote from Fireside by the arctic monkeys. 
> 
> There's all these secrets that I can't keep/Like in my heart there's that hotel suite and you lived there so long/It's kinda strange now you're gone/I'm not sure if I should show you what I've found/Has it gone for good?/Or is it coming back around?/Isn't it hard to make up your mind?/When you're losing and your fuse is fireside.
> 
> I think it's pretty self explanatory, but basically Winter finally figured out he has feelings, just in time for Tony to pull away, and now he's asking if Tony even wants to know.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


	6. Baby I Feel Like I've Been Here Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tittle from One For The Road by The Arctic Monkeys
> 
> This is shit compared to last chapter, I'm so sorry.

They broke up. If they were ever together.

Winter thinks, at least.

Iron Man has been reclusive this month. So has Starkphone Guy. So has Winter’s employer.

Winter still doesn’t know if it was gone for good. He was starting to think it had.

Then it comes back around.

In fits and starts.

It starts when Winter gets thrown off a building by a little green man and shatters his foot. It starts with Starkphone breaking radio silence.

**_From_ ** **Starkphone _Guy at 00:12_**

_> >U up?_

He doesn’t know why he answers, only that he’s been fighting the desire to send a text himself for weeks now. He loses the battle if only because he’s also going mad with boredom. He heals fast, but his foot was all sorts of shattered. It was taking a few days.

_< <Not an option._

_> >?_

_< <Foot is broken._

_> >Sorry. Hope you feel better_

No one has seen Stark since the last time they fought and Winter had refused to fight back in some backhanded show of defiance and rejection of their break up.

Stark hasn’t had anything to say to the last message Winter left him with.

Until now, Winter supposed.

Though maybe he was just reading into it when the goblin man gets killed by Iron Man. He releases enough hallucinogenics to trip out four city blocks and Winter wonders if that’s going to be a thing, of if he’s just an opportunist.

There are no flowers left at the crime scene, but there’s a message to Rogers about cleaning up his messes and that makes Winter think it may have nothing to do with him at all.

Winter also thinks that he’s got to make it up to Rogers now, because Stark doesn’t want him. Winter still struggles to play the part the way he could before though.

He wasn’t kidding when he thought his time with Tony—with Stark would ruin him.

It just so happens to flow deeper than sex.

Rogers keeps looking at Winter like there’s something on his face.

He knows they’re all trying to figure it out. Why Winter didn’t raise a hand to Stark a month ago. Why Stark left.

Romanoff thinks she’s got it figured out.

Winter doesn’t even know if she’s wrong.

Maybe it is just that Winter needs to be last. Or at least last before Rogers.

That’s what it started as.

Fuck if he knows what it is now.

If it’s anything at all.

Winter thinks that would be worse. If there was nothingness in the place where rage and desire used to war with each other.

Winter thinks a lot.

Winter feels a lot.

Mostly, Winter just feels _cold_.

“He’s accelerating,” Romanoff says in a voice nearly as icy as Winter feels when Wilson disappears and they’re all waiting for the message to come.

He feels cold because… Because he would have liked to watch this one.

Wilson’s comment from the night of the gala has stuck with Winter, especially now that it’s become clear that Winter’s not worth it to Stark, either.

_He loves you, I just don’t know why._

_Why did Stark pick you? You’re broken. You’re a problem._

So, Winter feels a coldness that comes with having death in your eyes. With having given up.

At least he does, until he feels a flicker of heat stir in him when the message finally comes.

_Steve, Spangles, Cap._

_Mental health professionals are a controlling force, right? This one was._

_-You Know Who I Am._

The body is covered in little purple flowers.

Winter Heath.

He doesn’t bother to school his expression. The confusion there is genuine and impossible to see through because he really has no idea what is going on.

He still doesn’t know if they believe him.

He finds it difficult to care.

He knows that he’s in trouble with Rogers. Knows that Romanoff doesn’t know what to think when she looks at him. But they all know they can’t bench him.

There’s only three of them left.

Stark _is_ escalating.

One night, Winter finds Romanoff staring at him, and he can tell she’s wondering which one of them is next. Which one has even the smallest chance of survival.

He see’s her resignation, but it’s not quite as sweet as Barton’s was.

Maybe because it’s not also painted with agony.

Maybe it’s because nothing feels as sweet when not shared with Ton—with Stark.

It’s always better in _fucking company_.

He hasn’t had much of that lately.

He thinks he see’s Winter Heath growing in a rooftop garden, but he knows it only blooms in the winter. Stark must have it engineered or something, Winter didn’t read the full forensics report.

He thinks he sees Stark walk by the steps of the safehouse a million times, but he never stops to ask for a light.

He thinks his phone buzzes in his pocket too, but it never does after he’s healed again.

Winter knows he’s running out of time with both Stark and Rogers and he _just doesn’t care_.

He doesn’t want to be a weapon to use against Rogers anymore. He doesn’t want to be useful.

He had been useful to Stark, and he still _gave him away_.

People always give Winter away.

From handler to handler. Hydra division to Hydra division. To Rogers to Stark to Rogers again.

He’s always passed off when he gets too troublesome to operate.

It wasn’t because he didn’t try. He did. He tried so hard to be wanted. Stark made him feel wanted. Cherished. Trustworthy.

He supposed even his own favourite gun, his Uzi, was replaced when something better came along. Something with his name on it. Something eye catching, something special.

But Stark didn’t replace him. Stark still operates alone. Who could have replaced Winter so quickly? Was there someone before? No, not after Winter had seen the mix of emotion on Stark’s face the first time Winter said his first name.

There is a desperate part of Winter that wants to see this act as a kindness. A part of him that’s screaming “Yeah, he gave you back to Rogers, but just think about _why_ ” and it was getting fainter and fainter until Winter’s foot was broken and Starkphone messaged him.

Whatever the reasoning behind dumping Winter back on Rogers, Winter doesn’t want to be here.

And it shows.

Another four dead Hydra agents, and Winter doesn’t hide these bodies. A headshot when he could have gone for the thigh. A knife between ribs when he could have gone for a slash.

He doesn’t _care_.

Only that it doesn’t feel nearly as good as when he was doing it for Stark.

He’s not a very good boy. Not for Rogers at least. Winter doesn’t know what the fuck Stark thinks of Winters new outlook on life.

He wonders if Stark see’s it for the self destruction that it is.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Winter snaps at Rogers one night.

Rogers shakes his head, “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” he says.

Winter laughs then, hysterical and mean. There is so much irony in hearing those words _now_ , only after Winter has been dropped by the only man who ever gave Winter reason to betray Rogers and his memory of Bucky.

Stark succeeded. He used Winter to hurt Rogers, and Barton, and all the others really. But now he’s exceeded his fucking usefulness.

He doesn’t think he’s going into cryostasis this time.

He continues to kill Hydra agents with the ferocity of the Winter Soldier whenever he see’s a chance. He catches Romanoff’s gun on him once or twice, but she never shoots.

There is only three of them left, after all.

When Iron Man does surface, he’s not doing much.

It’s chaos for chaos’s sake.

Flying around the city and setting neat little bombs in half finished buildings. They explode into fireworks and the destruction seems to collapse into tidy little piles.

Winter thinks the bombs would be great for demolition crews in the city.

So does a lot of the public still loyal to the fallen hero.

“You’ve been keeping it in your pants lately,” Winter says, emotionless when Iron Man drops down on him trying to defuse a bomb. If they’re going back to playing the old game of cat and mouse, then they might as well return to the same old euphemism, Winter thinks.

“You haven’t been,” Stark replies and the beeping of the bomb stops at the four minute-eighteen second mark, “I was wondering how many secrets you could keep,” he says, “Seems we’ve found the limit,” and the armour seems to melt away from his body completely.

It didn’t open up and allow him to exit. It didn’t fall apart into plates and pieces. The whole thing glimmered in the sunlight and turned to molten silver crawling in thick dripping lines across his body, seeping, bleeding into his t-shirt right where Winter knew the arc reactor sat.

Suffice to say, it gave Winter a hell of a fucking pause.

Winter recalls having the thought that Stark didn’t feel human. He is starting to wonder if he was right.

“Here we thought you found someone new to terrorize,” Winter gets out.

Winter didn’t miss the message Stark was giving him, especially not when he takes a few steps forward and says, “I think I’ve been too busy to find somebody new,” he says.

It makes Winter unreasonably angry that this is the song Stark has chosen. He doesn’t even need to listen to it so grasp the full meaning, and besides, Winter’s been listening to Do I Wanna Know enough himself these last two months.

It makes him angry because Stark _already_ knows.

It makes him angry because Winter asked him the same damn thing months ago and he still hasn’t figured it out?!

It makes him angry enough to advance on the unsuited man, slow and dangerous, and while Stark just smirks, Winter doesn’t think he was expecting him to make contact.

Winter does, and he brings them tumbling to the ground, and when Winter has the man pinned beneath him with a knife pressed to his throat, the smirk comes back full force.

If Winter thought that seeing the armour melt away gave him a pause than what happens next nearly stuns him.

He sees the metal of his knife at Stark’s throat and hesitates.

Hesitation turns to outright panic when he realizes how much he does not want to be doing what he’s doing right now.

It was like waking from being the soldier. The horrible, gut churning rejection of his current actions.

He can’t bring himself to press the knife. Just stares wide eyed and in horror of what he’s done.

A hand comes up, and Winter doesn’t expect it to hurt, and that makes what he’s doing so much worse.

How could he threaten the man who’s given Winter so much? Who has cherished him so sweetly?

Tony brushes his hair back, deft fingers releasing the mask from Winter’s face as he goes.

Winter gasps softly at the gentleness of the action.

Then Winter has to jerk back roughly because Tony leans up, tilts his chin back and cuts himself on Winters blade with a smile on his face.

Winter hears the knife clatter against cement when he tosses it away, but all he sees is the swell of blood that rises slowly to the surface of the nick.

“I—I…” Winter hears his voice crack. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to hurt you._

Tony doesn’t say anything, strokes his hand over Winters face, and then… and then Winter is given another pause.

Tony’s eyes flash electric blue again, and the broken skin shimmers with the silvery liquid metal that Winter has just watched the Iron Man suit decompose into, and then it seems to settle back within Tony’s very skin and he’s _healed_.

Just like when Winter shot him all that time ago.

Winter’s stunned next when Tony flips them and he’s left dizzy on his back with Tony straddling his waist.

The knife is at his throat now, and he thinks that’s okay.

Tony took care not to let Winter hit his head when they flipped.

Tony doesn’t so much as nick Winter with the knife, but it stays there.

“I’m sorry,” Winter whispers.

To his upmost surprise, Tony leans in and brushes their lips together, “Me too, Winter” he says softly.

Winter tries to choke out more words. Maybe to ask for another kiss, but he knows better. He doesn’t deserve one.

“Shh,” Tony says, he rubs his thumb over the line left by his mask again, but he’s gentle this time, “You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily, puppy,” he says, and Winter knows that it’s both an assurance that no harm has been done, but also a promise.

Winter hopes that’s what he’s saying.

Promising not to throw Winter away again.

Tony doesn’t kiss him again, but he pets him and smiles down at him and presses the knife back into Winter’s hand and whispers in his ear how to defuse the bomb.

The suit rematerializes around Tony’s body, and Winter knows there is a significance in Tony being seemingly fused with the armour he fights in, but he is far too busy proving he’s competent enough to be another weapon in Tony’s arsenal by diffusing this bomb to fully appreciate it.

“You know I could just give you a ride,” Iron Man muses when he appears a little while later, when Winter’s running all over Manhattan trying to diffuse more bombs because _he doesn’t have time to explain it to you Rogers, just trust me_.

Iron Man does not wait for a reply and ends up giving Winter an unrequested ride across town, and it features Winter being dragged by one arm over the skyline.

He doesn’t dare imagine the headlines.

Nine more buildings are demolished that day.

Stark Industries stocks go up by nine points the next morning.

Rogers looks ready to pop a blood vessel when Hammer Industries calls to ask for details on the specifications of the bomb. The city would like to invest in recreating them.

It’s hilarious to watch Rogers try and lecture a war monger. It’s like screaming at a wall.

There is another military gala a few days later, and Rogers in his high and mighty mood, refuses to attend because an advocate for the accords is in attendance.

Even Romanoff points out how important it is that they attend, but Roger’s will not be swayed.

Three people die at the hands of Iron Man.

None of them are the man Rogers was avoiding.

Another three tonnes of personal blame get added to Rogers’s shoulders.

Winter’s phone buzzes during Rogers pity party. Winter thinks he’s supposed to be comforting, so he throws out a quick ‘It wasn’t your fault’ like Rogers usually allows Winter, and then discreetly checks his phone.

**_From Starkphone Guy at 2:17_ **

_> >all this dead military shit on the news got me thinking_

_> >Soldiers pledge servitude._

_> >to freedom. _

Stark really was never a soldier, Winter thinks.

_< <Freedom to choose who we serve_

_> >Does that mean youre military?_

Winter fights an eyeroll. They are still playing at strangers, aren’t they?

_< <it means I like to serve._

_> >Darling, everyone knows that already._

_< <u never served?_

There’s more meaning to the question then whether or not the man on the other end of the conversation has ever been a soldier.

_> >just myself. ;)_

It’s amazing, how different Winter and Tony are. It is also amazing how different Tony and Rogers are.

Tony has never served anyone, yet he offered his assistance, his loyalty, his life to the cause of the Avengers when he saw a reason to and at absolutely no other point.

Rogers has devoted his life to serving a cause, a country, that changes and manipulates in a constant fluid motion and yet he remains unwavering in his servitude.

It is no wonder that Rogers feels the need to exercise the control he does over Winter.

Rogers has died serving a country that has grown far beyond his simple sacrifice. Beyond Bucky’s.

How alone he must feel. How desperately lost he must be amidst the waves of this new world.

It’s only rational that he would cling to something from the past. That he would want that something to be as solid and unwavering as he himself.

It is no wonder he would cling to Winter.

No one wants to die alone, after all.

It must have stung, for Rogers to find that Tony would rather die alone than become the sinking anchor that moors Steve Rogers in this world.

Because Tony has never served Rogers at all.

What a strange freedom that must be.

He wants it for himself now too.

Winter and Tony are on the precipice of something. Teetering on the edge of what they’ve both been skirting around for a while now.

Winter doesn’t fully know if that’s death or love or both.

He knows what he wants it to be. God, he does. He struggles not to let hope destroy him, but he doesn’t think he manages.

He lets the familiar beat of Do I Wanna Know wash over him and thinks it’s a confession of love as much as it is one of vulnerability.

For once, Tony doesn’t have all the answers. They are both flying blind with this thing between them.

_Have you no idea that you're in deep?_

_I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week._

_How many secrets can you keep?_

_'Cause there's this tune I found_

_That makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat_

_Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee._

Winter knows that Tony must have understood his last message. He left him with the lyric _there’s all these secrets I can’t keep_ and Winter feels this is a direct response to that. They truly are coming to the limit of secrets that Winter can stand. Already Winter has been slipping. Killing people he shouldn’t. Distancing himself from Rogers. Arguing. Standing up for himself.

Can Winter keep one more? Can he hold on to the secret of Tony’s feelings?

He doesn’t know the answer. Neither of them do.

_Do I wanna know if this feelin’ flows both ways?_

_Sad to see you go, was sort of hoping that you’d stay._

_Baby we both know that the nights were mainly made for sayin’ things that you can’t say tomorrow day._

_Crawlin’ back to you._

That is what had made Winter so unbelievably angry when Tony had hinted at this song. Now, Winter realizes there is more to it than wondering what Winter’s feelings are. Tony knows how Winter feels, and he is still afraid to hear it spoken aloud. He is still reluctant in his own strange way, to let this be real.

_Maybe I'm too busy bein' yours_

_To fall for somebody new_

_Now, I've thought it through_

_Crawlin' back to you._

It feels like Tony is requesting forgiveness too. Admitting he was wrong to leave Winter. Winter came to that conclusion already though, when Tony actually apologized. When he promised not to go away again.

_So have you got the guts?_

_Been wonderin' if your heart's still open_

_And if so, I wanna know what time it shuts._

It’s an unexpectedly pleasant request for confirmation. Confirmation that Winter still wants this after their last meeting.

_Simmer down an' pucker up, I'm sorry to interrupt_

_It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you_

_I don't know if you feel the same as I do_

_But we could be together if you wanted to._

It’s the last line that has Winter shaking with anticipation. They could be together. They could. Winter wants it so badly.

There’s a giddiness that follows Winter around now. A giddiness and a curiosity.

He wants to know how serious Tony is about being together. He wants to know how true it is.

He wants to know if this is about them, Tony and Winter, or if it’s still only about Rogers. He wants it to be both.

He wants to tell Tony how he feels, and yet he wants to wait. Wait until Tony is sure that he wants more than a game between them.

Mostly, Winter just _wants_.

And then Winter gets.

At least, a little of what he wants.

**_From_ ** **Starkphone Guy _at 14:08_**

_> >You busy?_

_< <Not really_

_> >Up for a visitor?_

Winter stares at the message for a long time. Almost twenty minutes go by, actually, before his hands type out a reply with absolutely zero response from his brain.

_< <Sure_

The knock on the door comes immediately.

Rogers and Romanoff are at the memorial service for the three soldiers that died at the gala, and Winter begged off because he always does and that wasn’t changing just because Wilson and Barton were dead.

He’s alone in the safehouse.

“Hey puppy”.

Somehow, even staring at Tony at the door, it’s not what he was expecting.

“You,” Winter says, eloquently, “You’re… here,” he says.

“You weren’t expecting someone else, were you?” comes the smirking reply.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t expecting anybody, really.

“Not really,” Winter says eventually.

It’s the same thing he had sent via text message while he was in the middle of cleaning his guns. Of course, he doesn’t have them _all_ in pieces right now. But several of them are un-operational at the moment. It’s bad timing for there to be a serial killer at the door.

Winter steps aside and lets Tony in.

Tony is on him the moment the door shuts, shoving him against it.

Winter would say he’s been missed, but he’s not saying anything with Tony’s tongue in his mouth.

One and a half hours. That’s when Rogers and Romanoff will be back.

Tony takes advantage of damn near every second of it so Winter knows he’s aware of the time constraint.

Something about it feels juvenile, but with the added knowledge that if they’re caught, somebody’s going to die. Maybe that’s the point. The thought has Winter getting hard already, but that might also be the way he’s pinned to the door.

Tony gets hold of Winter’s hair and the pinpricks of pain send a shiver down his spine, makes his head tilt back and his mouth drop open on a soft moan.

Biting teeth and sucking bruises are followed by gentle licks that feel more possessive than soothing and Winter’s legs feel weak. He’s helpless but to follow when the hand gripping his hair pulls and pulls until he’s falling on his knees.

God damn, he wants this.

Here, on his knees, up against the door of the ‘safehouse’, he wants it so badly he presses forward against the grip Tony has on him and presses rough, open-mouthed kisses to the growing hardness in the expensive jeans Tony wears.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Tony scolds, and his grip moves to Winters jaw, forcing him back until his head collides with the door with a dull thud, “So eager, aren’t you puppy?” he coos.

Winter can’t help but look up with a pleading expression. He wants so bad.

He wants to feel the weight of Tony’s hot, hard cock on his tongue, wants to feel it press deeper and deeper into his throat. Wants to choke on it, gag around it, struggle to breathe with it in his mouth. Wants to hear Tony’s little grunted moans and breathy sighs, his rolling praise like waves over Winter’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” Winter says softly, “Please, I’ll be good,” he looks up through his lashes and begs.

Tony smiles, dark and mean and pats his face roughly, “I know you will,” he says, fingers digging into Winter’s jaw. The pain feels good though, just like the pain of having his hair pulled does.

“I’m sorry,” Winter says again, and it’s for more than just getting ahead of himself here. Winter feels the guilt of having tried to hurt Tony still, even comforted by the knowledge that he couldn’t have even if he truly had wanted to.

“It’s okay, Frosty,” Tony says, “You’re just a puppy, you’re still learning,” he purrs and his other hand goes to his fly, opening his pants.

Winter’s mouth waters in anticipation, and the hand on his jaw tightens until fingers pry his mouth open. Tony shoves his fingers in Winter’s mouth, gags him on them and watches with a sly smile as Winters eyes water. Winter still won’t look away, maintains eye contact even as his breath gets harder to catch.

Finally, Tony frees his cock from his pants and guides himself to Winter’s waiting mouth. He pulls his fingers free of Winters throat and replaces them with the slow glide of his cock along Winter’s tongue.

Tony’s cock jumps in his mouth and Winter takes care to keep his teeth covered. He makes a low drawn out moan above Winter and the sound goes straight to Winter’s own cock.

“Good boy,” Tony praises, both hands coming to grip Winter’s head, guide his bobbing movements with hands and shallow thrusts. The foyer is filled with the sounds of Tony’s breathing, of Winter’s own panting breaths, and of the slick sound of gagging. It’s an obscene cacophony that Winter adores.

Tony pins Winter to the door with his hips, slides his cock deeper into his throat, heedless of the resistance and then holds him there. Winter’s own neglected cock leaks in his sweatpants that are no doubt tented suggestively.

His face is likely very red, and there isn’t a way to breathe at all like this, but Winter uses the last of the air is his lungs to moan softly around Tony’s cock, to send vibrations up the length, to make him feel good.

Black spots dance in his vision and a tear escapes his eye, but he has to reach up and squeeze his own cock because _that_ is the pressure that is unbearable.

Tony slowly pulls back, “ _Fuck, Winter_ ,” he curses with a heated pleasure. Winter can’t do more than pant for breath, the sudden rush of air as pleasurable as the deprivation was.

He takes another step back from Winter, wraps his fist up in his hair again and pulls Winter forward until he’s on his hands and knees.

Tony doesn’t so much as guide Winter as he does drag Winter across the floor to the scantly furnished living room.

“Up,” Tony directs and Winter catches sight of the dark wet spot growing in the front of his sweatpants. He’s honestly surprised he hasn’t cum just from all the hair pulling as it really, really seems to do it for him.

Winter ends up bent over the arm of the couch, his t-shirt pulled off and likely stretched out now, and his pants around his knees.

Tony simply unbuttons a few buttons of his expensive dress shirt and lets his pants rest below the curve of his ass, freeing only what he deems to need.

There is no armour this time, no threatening gauntlet. Though Winter knows that apparently, the armour is with Tony at all times. That Tony and the armour are one now, in more ways than just the physical.

Tony wants Winter with and without the mask. There is no more distance put between them.

There is lube this time, but still Tony is rough and quick about stretching Winter out. He keeps a hand in Winter’s hair to stop him from burying his face in his arms to muffle the sounds.

“Let daddy hear you, puppy,” Tony purrs in his ear.

“And the neighbours?” Winter pants out even as he rolls his hips back against those long fingers inside him and whines. Their safehouse is hiding in plain sight, on a quiet little street of a retired couples and a young families.

Tony only chuckles behind him, pulling his fingers out and immediately shoving his cock in their place.

“Fuck!” Winter shouts with the suddenness of it all. His body goes tense and then completely lax, held up only by the arm of the couch and Tony’s hold on his hair.

There really is no distance between them. Tony makes sure of that as he buries himself deep inside Winter’s body.

He thinks this might be an even more vulnerable and dangerous position than before. It’s not just closing his eyes to pleasure. He can’t turn around at all. Tony could slit his throat just like this and he would never see it coming.

“Oh, fuck, Tony,” Winter breathes, and the man behind him grips tight to Winters hip and takes it as consent to start fucking in deep and hard and punishing.

Tony covers Winter’s back with his own body, gets his teeth into every inch of skin he can reach, biting and bruising, drawing blood even. Winter can taste it when Tony kisses him, uncoordinated and sloppy.

He gets his teeth in the mess of scars left by Hydra and the skin there feels over-sensitive and not sensitive enough. Feels wrong. Winter makes an embarrassing noise somewhere between a moan, gasp, scream, and whimper. Tony seems to like the sound, since he bites down again.

It feels good, despite the wrongness of it, to have Tony hurt him, break his skin, break _him_ , in the place that Hydra has damaged Winter so much. It feels incredibly right that Tony could draw pleasure out of the mangled mess Hydra left on his body.

That Tony would want to.

There is possessiveness in the way Tony fucks him now, where before it was rough, controlling, and threatening.

It remains all of those things, but there is more to it. More to the way he bites and sucks at Winters throat, shoulders, and back.

Fingernails cut into his skin, pull and scratch and leave burning trails in their wake. The heat spreads all over, and Winter is alight with it again.

He no longer feels cold.

The heat of Tony, of the star in his chest, of the machine beneath his skin, it burns against him and seeps in deep, like the liquid way the armour melds with Tony.

This heat will never leave, Winter thinks.

Tony will make sure of it.

This heat will never fade, not until Winter fades too.

Whenever that may be.

He feels his orgasm approaching, can barely string together a sentence, but his babbling gets the point across, he’s pretty sure.

Again, Tony leads Winter’s metal hand to his cock, makes him squeeze until it’s painful and then some, and if Winter weren’t enhanced and incredibly desperate, he wouldn’t be able to cum at all, but he is, and so he does, and it _hurts_. The pain makes him want more, more, more and he wonders if can earn another orgasm before Tony is finished with him.

Winter did not have the forethought that he would be coming on the couch cushions, but apparently Tony _did_.

“So messy,” he tuts in Winter’s ear, and then his hand comes up, fingers wet with Winter’s cum and jams them into his mouth.

Winter moans, his cock immediately taking a second interest, and sucks Tony’s fingers clean of his mess the best he can.

“Good boy,” he praises again and covers Winters mouth with his hand, now wet with both spit and cum, and uses the grip and leverage to pull Winter harder into his thrusts.

Tony’s cock twitches and throbs inside Winter when he cums, sinking teeth deep in Winter’s flesh.

He feels Tony’s forehead drop between Winter’s shoulder blades, feels hot breaths panted against his skin and shivers under the sensation.

Winter lets his eyes slip shut and takes a minute to breath too. He thinks he _wants_ more than he did even before Tony showed up.

“You know,” Tony muses, pulling out and away, “People are starting to talk about us,” he smirks when Winter glances back at him.

Most of Winter’s higher-order thinking has been conveniently fucked out of him, but he see’s a chance to leave Tony with his own hidden message, even if it’s slurred and half mumbled into the arm of the couch he’s slumped against, “I’d like to poke them in their prying eyes,” he says with a small smile.

Tony leans down and brushes his hair away from his face, kisses his temple with a soft hum, “We’ll see about finding another mark that lasts, then,” Tony says and Winter is always amazed at how quick Tony is at that.

Winter also shivers at the thought.

Tony likes to leave marks, Winter knows. He’s covered in them now. Winter likes having them. Requested them their first time together after Barton. They always fade though. Even the ones he’s wearing now will fade.

The thought of something permanent. More permanent than Hydra. More permanent than Rogers. And from Tony? Winter bites his lip to muffle a moan just thinking about it, he’s already half hard again.

“Be good, puppy,” Tony says once he’s dressed and perfectly presentable and Winter’s managed to pull his sweatpants back up shaky legs, “I’ll see you soon,” he adds with a smirk.

No one dies this time. That has to mean something.

When Tony’s gone, Winter feels strangely lonely considering he typically prefers solitude. He goes back to cleaning his guns, wincing as he sits at the rickety kitchen table.

It’s not long later that Rogers and Romanoff make their entrance.

He gives them a small wave and continues minding his own business.

“Someone was here,” Romanoff says a few minutes later and Rogers freezes in his movements.

“How do you figure?” Winter asks bored.

“I can smell it,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

Winter can’t help but laugh at that. _And Tony calls me a dog_ , he thinks to himself.

“Also, you have a hickey,” she adds.

Winter shrugs, “Oh probably,” he says.

Rogers face goes fiery red.

Oh, Winter thinks with a smirk as Rogers slams a fist down on the counter, will the teasing of the fire be followed by the _thud_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this wasn't as good as it could have been :( but hopefully still scratches that itch for dark and villainous Tony and Winter!  
> Only two more heroes left...
> 
> Winter's hidden message: Fire and the Thud by the Arctic Monkeys:  
> You showed me my tomorrow  
> Beside a box of matches  
> A welcome threatening stir
> 
> My hopes of being stolen  
> Might just ring true  
> Depends who you prefer
> 
> But if it's true you're gonna run away  
> Tell me where  
> I'll meet you there
> 
> Am I snapping the excitement  
> If I pack away the laughter  
> And tell you how it feels
> 
> And does burden come to meet ya  
> If I've questions of the feature that runs on your dream wheel.
> 
> The day after you stole my heart,  
> Everything I touched told me it would be better shared with you
> 
> And now you're hiding in my sleep  
> And the book reveals your face  
> And there's a splashing in my eyelids  
> As the concentration continually breaks
> 
> I did request the mark you cast  
> Didn't heal as fast  
> I hear your voice in silences  
> Will the teasing of the fire be followed by the thud?
> 
> And the jostling crowd  
> You're not allowed to tell the truth  
> And the photo booth's a liar
> 
> And the sharpened explanation  
> But there's no screaming reason to inquire  
> I'd like to poke them in their prying eyes  
> With things they never see if it smacked them in their temples
> 
> There is so much relevant to this song! It touches on how Tony was able to show Winter the fate of his future with Rogers, and spark him to take control of his own life. It mentions hopes of being stolen, and that goes back to Winter's thoughts about Tony's intentions and wondering if Tony prefers torturing Rogers, or actually being with Winter. Winter is also asking, once again, if telling Tony how he feels will ruin the game they're playing. It talks about how Winter's life is being haunted by thoughts of Tony, seeing reminders of him in places he shouldn't. It goes back to the recurring theme in these songs about keeping secrets and lies. As well mentions the scrutiny that Winter is under and his annoyance there. The line about the teasing fire being followed by the thud, in this case refers to the teasing of being together, and the climax of actually achieving that; or the teasing being followed by Tony actually running off with our little terminator. 
> 
> One more chapter and two more Avengers.... or three?
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> I have [tumblr](https://notdoingsohot.tumblr.com/) now


	7. Soundtrack to Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally reach the inspiration of this fic. The songs "I Wanna be Yours" and "R U Mine" by the Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this last chapter and wear a FUCKING mask and make sure it covers your GOD DAMN nose when you go outside.

The next fight with Iron man. The next fight with Iron Man. Winter lives between encounters with Tony Stark, waiting to have life breathed back into him at the sight of the genius.

The exhilaration never fades.

He’s hungry for Tony’s attention. Yearning for affection from him and him alone.

Soon can not come soon enough.

Winter acknowledges all the ways he’s made living with Rogers harder for himself, though. He could have covered up the marks left on his body by Tony, maybe opened a window so the living room didn’t reek of sex. Even just denying that he had sex though it was obvious might have made it easier in the long run, but what is done is done.

He made this bed, and he’ll die in it. Lie in it. Whatever.

He deals with Rogers’s sharp words and cutting glances. At Romanoff’s constant judgment.

He wonders how much longer Tony will make Winter play this game with them.

He’s not really interested in playing anymore. Not since Rogers has gotten it into his head that because Winter let some unnamed person touch him, fuck him, and mark him, that Rogers can too.

The casual touches he’s always hated come back with a vengeance.

Winter thinks he dodged a _kiss_ one night.

He doesn’t fall back on his old habits, doesn’t aim to please Rogers anymore. Although he still feels like he’s sinking, drowning waiting for Tony’s return.

Coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, the next time they get called out to battle, it’s a trap.

Tony is after Winter, and Winter puts up a valiant fight for the show of things, but he’s grinning behind his mask when Iron Man nabs him and flies off into the sun.

Tony points him at three different targets that night. Two are politicians, and one is another gang member.

Every shot feels nearly as good as Tony shoving into him.

He’s showered in praise, and the last kill, Winter gets to use his hands.

Tony lets him get messy, covered in blood. Lets him take his time before holding the dying man still for Tony to deliver the final blow, a deadly slice. A stripe across the man’s throat that dirties Winter further, but that leaves Tony impeccable as always.

Impeccable until he gets his clean hands all over Winter’s filthy body.

Winter marvels in the way Tony lets him leave so many bloody handprints on his body like this.

Tony is rough and possessive again, more so than ever before when he cums all over Winters stomach, his spend mixing with blood that is likely a collaboration of Winter’s and the dead thug twenty feet away.

Burning hands crusted with copper from being tangled in Winters matted hair rub the mess into Winters skin, scratching nails across his abs that sting and burn with the mix of blood, sweat, and seed pressed into the pink trails of damage.

Winter cums in Tony’s other hand and adds to the canvas of filth when he’s told.

When Tony delivers Winter to Rogers, no one wants to touch him.

His daddy takes very good care of him, Winter thinks.

And Tony is _his_. Just like Winter is Tony’s, and there’s proof of that all over his body now.

It is a shame that it so easily washes away.

It’s four in the morning just a few days later when this proof of ownership is confirmed yet again. He is for once not listening to the Arctic Monkeys, though he’s not paying much attention to what he’s listening to.

He’s also got his hand down his pants because he can still feel the phantom pressure of rough hands on his body and when he closes his eyes he can feel the pull of Tony’s hand is his hair, smell the scent of blood.

He’s close when the song playing softly and barely registering in his mind changes abruptly to the familiar opening riff of an Arctic Monkey’s song.

He knows the song right away, but it doesn’t stop him from freezing in his activities to listen to the words.

He doesn’t know how Tony was able to change the song, but he knows he’s responsible when the song plays over and over again.

_I'm a puppet on a string_

_Tracy Island, time-traveling_

_Diamond cutter-shaped heartaches_

_Come to find you four in some velvet morning_

_Years too late, she's a silver lining_

_Lone ranger riding through an open space_

Winter recalls how it’s always felt like he and the other’s trailing after Steve were dancing little puppets on a string themselves. How heady is the feeling to know that Winter has had some similar effect on Tony now too.

_In my mind when she's not right there beside me_

_I go crazy 'cause here isn't where I wanna be_

_And satisfaction feels like a distant memory_

Winter wonders how long Tony’s been waiting to do this. This was how it started, wasn’t it? With Winters phone, repeating a song on his playlist.

Winter also has to wonder, if Tony has access to his phone, did he know what Winter was doing? What he was thinking about? Was Tony doing the same thing? Searching for pleasurable satisfaction that comes no where near that which they can give each other?

_And I can't help myself, all I_

_Wanna hear her say is "Are you mine?"_

_Well, are you mine?_

_Are you mine?_

The words send a chill of need, desire, and longing up Winter’s spine. It’s the assurance, the proof, the confidence that Winter’s been needing. Everything he’s been waiting for. The ownership that Tony’s been showing finally coming to a head, coming to words instead of blows and it’s an even better feeling than Winter imagined it would be when he fantasized about it.

_I guess what I'm tryna say is I need the deep end_

_Keep imagining meeting, wished away entire lifetimes_

_Unfair we're not somewhere misbehaving for days_

_Great escape, lost track of time and space_

_She's a silver lining climbing on my desire_

There will be a great escape, Winter thinks. Loud, dramatic, showy, like Tony himself. Everything that Winter has been made to shy away from. They’ll have it together, in whatever form that takes.

_And the thrill of the chase moves in mysterious ways_

_So in case, I'm mistaken, I_

_Just wanna hear you say, "You got me, baby”_

_Are you mine?_

Strange to consider that Tony thinks he has to ask. Has that not been what this has always been about? Ownership, leashes, bindings, obligations, guilt? Winter thinks it’s preposterous that Tony doesn’t know how badly Winter _wants to be his_.

Then again, maybe he just wants to hear Winter say the words.

Tony does like to hear Winter. Likes him to be loud when for so long Winter has been kept muzzled and silenced.

_Well, are you mine? (are you mine tomorrow?)_

_Are you mine? (or just mine tonight?)_

_Are you mine? (are you mine tomorrow?)_

_(Or just mine tonight?)_

Winter’s breath comes in harsh pants as he gets himself off listening to the hum of this song that Tony has chosen for him. When he finally tips over the edge into orgasm, he can’t help the soft, breathy, _“yes,”_ that escapes his bitten lips hoping that wherever Tony is, he hears him.

Yes, Winter is Tony’s.

He wants everyone to know it. He wonders if Tony told Wilson before he killed him? Wonders if Wilson knew when the winter heath was styled around his dying body.

Winter just wants to be Tony’s.

Forever.

No one else’s. He doesn’t want to be given away, or put in the freezer, or be left alone.

He want’s to be Tony’s puppy. Tony’s attack dog. Tony’s gun.

His anything.

 _His everything_.

When Tony finally takes Romanoff, too soon yet not soon enough, Winter follows obediently after like he knows he’s supposed to. So does Rogers, but they get separated the moment the step foot on solid ground in California.

The pressure, the guilt, the regret, the inadequacy, is palpable in Rogers’s presence. It weighs on him like a physical thing. Slows him down. Makes him stupid. Makes it so much easier for Tony.

And the look on Rogers’s face?

It’s incredible. Winter can’t wait for Tony to see it.

The bags under his eyes, the scruff, the weight loss, the sallow of his skin, marred with worry lines. The dullness in his eyes.

He is breaking.

Rogers is _broken_.

Winter never thought it was possible. Winter has only ever seen others break down for the will of Captain America.

Now…. Now the has-been National Hero has been bent beyond recognition. One more death, or maybe one betrayal, away from snapping into nothingness.

It’s not as easy this time, finding Romanoff. No one was there when she was taken. The only reason they know where to go is because they are sent an invitation to Tony’s birthday party in Malibu.

Winter is the only one who makes it.

Rogers, Spider-man, and a few other heroes Winter doesn’t bother learning the names of are all immediately tied up with the Iron Legion that Tony sends as a welcoming committee.

It’s easy to sneak away in all the commotion, especially when none of the Iron Legion robots take any interest in stopping him.

Like all things in Tony’s life, this home too, has been re-built.

It’s a beautiful sprawling mansion. Yet another property belonging to Pepper Potts on paper, but shows no sign of the business women at all.

“You don’t make it easy, do you?” Winter inquires when the security system does not permit him access.

“I made some parts easy,” Tony grins when Winter finally manages inside. He’s not sure he actually accomplished the feat of overriding the mansions security, but he made a valiant effort and then the door opened.

“The thrill of the chase and all,” Tony smirks, “it moves in mysterious ways,” he adds with a wink.

Tony leads him through the mansion. Romanoff is tied to a chair, faking unconsciousness when they walk by the large glass room with the bar. Tony stops to pour himself a drink, and Winter takes in the sight of the little spider.

There’s a burn running the expanse of her outer leg from hip to ankle, her right wrist is swollen twice the normal size and already molted with bruising. Her hair is even singed, and he thinks that might be the most deserved of her current injuries. Who fights with hair that long? Winter’s skirts the edge of acceptable anyway, but hers is just excessive.

Her face is also severely bruised, likely her jaw is broken, or at least will be soon if it’s not already.

They are far enough away that she can’t hear them, not with the pounding of music playing.

It really is a party.

Winter does not feel like an intruder this time. He feels welcome, and he feels like he has the right to be here, to witness this suffering.

“She’s awake,” Winter murmurs to Tony softly, leaning in close, but he doesn’t touch. He waits for permission.

It comes in the form of a pleased hum and Tony’s hand sliding around the back of his neck, dragging him in for a kiss.

“I’m impressed, Winter,” Tony purrs and it sends a shiver down his spine. All Winter can do is mewl under the assault of Tony’s mouth on his own.

 _Tony is impressed with him_.

“Come now,” Tony says as he pulls away. The music lowers without prompting, besides that of the electric blue of Tony’s eyes, “Let’s entertain our guest,” he grins.

She opens her eyes at their silent approach. Takes one look at Winter at Tony’s side, mask free, relaxed expression, and pinches her eyes shut with a curse.

Another bad bet.

She should have killed him when she had the chance.

He knows she’s considered this. It’s not the same as with Barton where the betrayal burned bright and hot and made Winter’s blood sing.

It’s satisfying to watch regardless.

She knew there was always a chance.

She made the wrong choice.

Trusted the wrong person.

She looks like she’s gotten comfortable with that reality a long time ago, if the dark shadow under her eyes is anything to go off of. That and the sleepless nights Winter knows happen more often than not.

Following the train of thought, Tony smirks, “If it’s any consolation,” he sooths, “You never would have succeeded killing him,” he tells her, his hand running possessively down Winter’s back.

This seems to surprise her. Fairly so, because it surprises Winter too, though maybe more than it should.

Tony’s proven himself to care about Winter more than he ever wanted to, it shouldn’t surprise Winter that Tony would have his back.

But to think Tony would take down the Black Widow to keep Winter safe? Even though he’s had a carefully kept plan and schedule for his revenge… That’s… a lot to think about.

He thinks that must mean that it’s love.

Or devotion of some, even deeper, more profound kind.

She shakes her head, laughing a humourless chuckle that sounds wet and deathly. She’ll die soon even if they don’t torture her first.

“What is it about you?” she demands from Winter, “Steve gave up everything for you,” she hisses. “Your ass can’t be that good,” she spits crudely.

“I beg to differ,” Tony leers, “Though it was those pretty, pouty lips that really drew me in,” he says, turning to Winter to trace his thumb over the curve of his mouth.

She turns her glare on Tony then, “And what? You just forgave him?” she demands of Tony.

The venom, the heat, the emotion on her voice is so much better than he could have hoped. Where Barton was fierce with betrayal, she is fierce with _hatred and jealousy_.

Tony chuckles darkly, his grip on Winter’s jaw turning hard and looking deep into his eyes with a warm smile, “Well,” Tony purrs, “What can I say? You’ve made it up to me, puppy,” he smirks before kissing Winter lightly and pulling away.

Romanoff’s face is twisted up in a scowl.

“So, you’re one of those people who call fully grown _dogs_ ‘puppies’, then?” she inquires with a scoff. He supposes she means to insult him with that, though she does not succeed.

Tony smiles, sweet and charming, “That’s just the thing, isn’t it? Winter is no where near full grown,” he says, “And unlike Rogers and Hydra, I intend to train him up _just right_ ,” he leers, and the words are accentuated by the hand that pets him condescendingly.

Winter grins back at her.

She does nothing but sneer at them.

Tony doesn’t seem to mind though.

He presses Winter forward with the hand on his back, “Play with your new toy a bit,” he purrs, “Make her scream for me, lovely,” he says with a kiss to Winter’s temple.

“Anything for you, boss,” Winter grins back.

It’s the first she hears him speak now, and it is not directed at her. Too often was he forced silent and yet she often tried to trick him into speech. He does not deign to speak now to her, remains silent as he plays.

He sticks knives, serrated blades and daggers, into all those fleshy spots he usually puts bullets when he was under Rogers reign. It takes twenty minutes before she starts screaming. Some curses, some unintelligible nonsense.

He draws a superficial cut just below her naval in the shape of a smiley face. It’s more expressive than she ever was. Brings more joy to the world than her barren body ever could.

Winter gets the fingers of his metal hand in one of the wounds, tears the flesh a little and she must bite a hole in her tongue because she spits a mouthful of blood at him.

Winter only grins.

Tony knew he’d be getting dirty.

He pulls his fingers out and watches the blood seep into the gold groves of his arm.

Tony approaches from where he’s been observing from a chair in the corner and kisses the life out of Winter until they’re both panting.

“I have a gift for you later” he murmurs.

Winter smiles, “I thought it was your birthday?” he teases.

“Oh, this is a gift to me too, puppy,” he purrs.

Winter can’t help leaning forward a little, tempting Tony to kiss him again.

“Yeah?” Winter breathes against Tony’s lips.

Tony hums with a sly grin, hands gripping his hips a little tighter, “Would you like me to make it hurt?” he asks with dark eyes and a sharp smile.

Winter doesn’t fully know what he’s agreeing to, but he nods, “Please,” he murmurs earning himself that kiss he’s been angling for.

“Good boy,” Tony crones softly, “But first, let’s wrap up here,” he says.

He slides up behind Winter, flush against his back. A hand comes to rest possessively on Winter’s hip, the other, still clad in glimmering red armour, slides down Winter’s flesh arm until their fingers tangle together.

Tony raises their joint hands, and as he does, hot liquid metal inches from Tony’s hand to Winter’s. It doesn’t burn, even though it looks like it should, and it doesn’t cool when it takes the shape of the Iron Man gauntlet on Winter’s hand.

Tony steadies his shaking arm and he can feel his grin when he presses a kiss to Winter’s temple.

“Ready, Sundance kid?”

“You call the shots babe,” Winter says with a pleased hum of his own, “I just wanna be yours,” he whispers.

Tony’s grip tightens on his hip, pulls him even tighter against his broad chest. Winter can feel Tony’s excitement in the form of warm heat, a thick hardness, and a barely perceivable tremble against his back.

This is more than just drawing a few minutes of screams from her throat. This is more than just helping. Tony is sharing this honour with him wholly and completely. Winter gets to deliver the final blow this time, even as Tony directs his every move.

Winter himself lets out a shaky breath, meets his targets eye and grins, sharp. He’s learned it from Tony, nothing like the mimicry of old war reel smiles that she’s seen before.

He see’s her expression, angry, venomous, and he thinks it’s fitting. She’s always felt this resentment towards Winter, and towards Tony.

Her own inadequacy manifesting in jealousy and the rejection of truth.

She tries to muffle her whimper valiantly, and Winter laughs.

The frustration is not directed at Winter and Tony though.

Resignation hangs over her like a cloud.

Anticipation builds, as does the pressure Tony exerts on Winter’s hip.

Tony meets Romanoff’s eyes with a grin and a challenging raised brow.

“Fire in the hole,” he says with a purr.

The repulsor beam whines with its charge and then crests with a deafening boom and harsh recoil.

The beam moves too fast to watch it through the air, but Winter’s mouth parts on a gasp as the target is met perfectly, a burning hole straight through her chest and the back of the chair.

The reflection of lights in the blood splattered glass behind her wink at Winter through the gaping wound.

Her face has been frozen in terrified shock, her mask finally breaking in her death.

The gauntlet really packs a punch, he thinks. He murmurs this to Tony, whose eyes grow even darker before he kisses Winter, wrenching his head back at an awkward and painful angle that makes him moan.

There is a definite difference in the level of fanfare Tony has awarded this latest death. It speaks volumes of Tony’s own genius—how he hasn’t underestimated his foe. Winter never thought he would see the Black Widow dead.

And yet.

Just like that, she has been erased from this world. Her fickle heart disintegrated, her stoic expression shattered. The body she used to make her way through the lives of others bent and broken into an ugly mural of disgrace.

Tony is well and truly done with her, Winter thinks, as he unties her corpse and lets it fall into an undignified heap. He isn’t delicate or precise when he places the mistletoe either. Just fills the bloody wound in her chest with the white, beady plant and kicks her legs out of the way.

Tony does not afford her grace and artful dignity the way he has done for the others. Rogers will find her here, a discarded pile of limbs and gore.

That in of itself is pre-meditation on Tony’s part.

“Now,” Tony says to him, rubbing his hands together gleefully, “Present time,” he grins.

Tony reaches out for him, and it’s only then that he realizes that Winter still has the gauntlet on, as Tony pulls him in by two metal hands instead of the usual one.

Winter should probably feel nervous, when Tony directs him into the chair previously occupied by Romanoff’s corpse. He doesn’t.

Tony walks away only momentarily, and Winter makes no move to stand, to leave, to do anything but embrace whatever happens next. When Tony comes back with a chair of his own, he smiles big and warm, with a softness that’s unexpected when he tears the sleeve from Winter’s jacket off like it’s paper and not leather and Kevlar.

He feels anticipation skyrocket when Tony’s eyes flash that sizzling blue and his arm goes dead at his side. He can still feel it though, when Tony arranges it at his side. He bites his lip when his flesh hand, encased by the gauntlet, moves on it’s own accord to wrap around the seat of the chair.

Or Tony’s accord at least.

Restraining him, however half-hearted.

Tony strokes a hand over Winter’s upper arm, just below the ball of his shoulder. Where the soviets had stamped that bright red star into him.

Realization dawns on him, and he struggles to repress the shiver that runs down his spine.

_I did request the mark you cast didn’t heal as fast…_

_We’ll see about finding another mark that lasts, then._

Winter doesn’t pretend to know what the apparatus that Tony uses is, but he knows what it feels like as Tony casts his own mark into Winter’s body.

It burns, the heat of it stinging and bright and aching into him at the same time.

He makes choked off whimpers of pain, and every time he does, Tony’s smirk grows. Winter struggles to be still, and he’s glad that Tony has disabled movement in his arm because pain this bad usually causes involuntary recalibrations and that would interfere with the genius at work.

Winter has made this request, and that thought alone is enough to motivate him to sit still.

The pain is searing, his artificial nerves raw and overwhelmed. The pain loses the origin, and his entire arm burns with it.

He doesn’t know if its hours or minutes, but finally the pain ends completely. The plus side of having fake nerves is that when the damage is done, the pain cuts out abruptly. The lack of pain is more jarring than the pain had been though.

Tony’s eyes are nearly black, swallowed by the pupil, and there’s a pretty flush on his cheeks. He looks ready to ravish Winter.

Breathing shakily, Winter finally looks at what’s been done to him.

The sight makes him moan with desire.

The first thing he thinks is _blood_. Followed by the symbolism of the red and gold now a permanent fixture on his body.

Cast onto his arm rests the familiar shape and pattern of Tony Stark’s arc reactor in raised metal like a brand. It’s set over the Vibranium in bloody, hot-rod red and surrounded by the gold inlay that highlights the plates of limb.

He has not etched this mark _in_ to Winter’s body the way others before him have, doesn’t carve out a hole. He’s welded his own metal, his own craftmanship, onto, into Winter’s arm.

The lines are clean, sharp, almost subtle for how seamless the whole thing is. As if this mark has always been a part of him.

And it’s red, red, red.

Winter is speechless.

This mark… This will last forever.

His other hand is released from the gauntlet, but Winter barely registers it besides the freedom that allows him to reach up and touch.

The metal is warm under his fingers in a way the rest of his arm is not.

Tony’s burning heat resides in part with Winter for the time being.

He can’t help himself leaning in and kissing Tony, hard and desperate.

He thinks it’s the first time Winter’s instigated a kiss, but he can’t be sure. All he sure of is the phantom burning of his arm that he knows is all wistfully in his head and the slick slide of Tony’s lips on his own. The feel of Tony’s mark on him.

Tony is going to take him right here, in this chair, in this crime scene.

He knows this with an absolute sort of certainty he doesn’t quite understand as anything more than his acute ability to understand Tony Stark in all the ways he has been allowed.

He can feel desire climbing through them both as Tony presses him into the chair. He can feel the burnt out circle blasted through the chairback leaving an impression against the middle of his spine. He is much taller than Romanoff, his heart rest well above the top if the fine wood, and is much, much less fickle.

His loyalty to Tony is something he will prove again and again if given half a chance.

Tony is simultaneously hurried and meticulous as he strips Winter of his clothes. When he is naked, Tony positions him to his liking, and Winter follows his directions as blindly as he always has. He feels a flash of confusion when Tony gets to his knees in front of Winters spread legs though. He grips the seat of the chair harder instead of moving like he instinctively wants to.

There is something dangerous about a villain with a mouth as sharp as Tony’s so near his exposed cock.

Tony always exposes Winter though, and this isn’t really any different.

“Don’t move,” Tony purrs.

Winter nods mutely and grips tighter.

Tony’s mouth, hot and wet, descends on Winters straining erection and he tries so, so hard not to move. To be good. His hips still jerk just a little bit at the sudden sensation.

It earns him _teeth_.

Not anything horrible, but enough of a warning that Winter stills completely, stops breathing before exhaling a hurried apology.

“I-I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,” he rushes, sounding more like a moan than a real apology.

Tony hums around his cock and Winter really does moan now.

It’s been a very, very long time since anyone has had his cock in their mouth, and somehow Tony still looks completely in control. Winter still feels at the other mans mercy.

The pleasure Tony takes from him this way is almost too much. It’s overwhelming and all encompassing just as it always is with Tony, but Winter feels like he’s flying apart under Tony’s mouth.

He’s not actually sure he likes it.

He has to keep so still in the face of this overstimulation, the pleasure so intense it hurts, and while the pain alone makes it that much better, Winter doesn’t think he can physically keep as still as he needs to be.

“Tony, Tony, I—Oh, I c-can’t,” he hears himself gasp hips shifting against his will again, and then Tony’s hands come up, grabbing hold of his restless waist and pins him nice and hard to the chair.

And then it’s very, very good.

“Yes,” he hisses softly, “Oh, fuck, thank you,” he breathes.

And then he does something he rarely ever does.

He babbles.

The sort of word vomit that clashes with his aesthetic so to speak. The sort of rushed, nonsensical talking that he’s only ever done for Tony, and never quite to this extent.

“God, fuck,” he moans, “Tony, you’re—fuck so perfect,” he hears himself gasping, “feels so good, oh my fucking god,” and he sort of wishes he would shut up, but he doesn’t, and he also loses track of what exactly he’s saying, other than how thankful he is for Tony.

He also calls Tony by every name he can think of, but Tony hums around his cock when he starts whining “Daddy,” so he settles on that for _a while_.

It doesn’t take long for him to get close, and Tony can very clearly tell and pulls off before he cums.

Winter squirms in the chair when Tony releases his hold, panting and whining quietly, and he completely forgets the chair is covered in drying blood and a splattering of other human debris until Tony’s repositioning him with his knees on the seat and the edge of the chairback digging into his stomach.

He sees himself, see’s Tony looming behind him, in the gore speckled glass windows. Tony’s reflection smirks at him, and Winter grins goofily back.

He watches through the glass as Tony pulls something, presumably lube, from his suit jacket and places it delicately between Winter’s spread knees on the chair. He then begins to rid himself of his own clothes and Winter turns to see in better detail.

Tony does not allow this.

He grips Winter’s hair and forced his head back around to face the glass with a simple, “Stay,” before letting go.

“Yes, Sir,” Winter replies easily, and although he mourns the finer details of Tony’s body, he is eager to do as he’s told.

Tony is always rough with his body. Winter is always rough with his own body too.

This time Tony preps him agonizingly slow, as if they have all the time in the world. They’ve never even fucked on a bed, and Winter’s cock catches on the sharp and biting edge of the hole left by the repulsor beam in the chair every now and again, but he could almost consider this to be _making love_.

He doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t want to rush Tony. He’s clearly enjoying himself, if the pleased smile he wears is anything to go off of.

He does nothing but writhe and moan for what feels like forever, but he can’t take it much longer and he gives in and begs with real tears in his eyes.

Which was exactly what Tony was waiting for, of course, because he shushes Winter with a warm smile and fucks slowly into him with his cock as soon as the first tear slips over his cheek.

“You’re being such a good boy,” he praises, though Winter thinks he could have been better. “So tolerant, letting me play with you, letting me break you,” he whispers in Winters ear as he begins to thrust with that still slow pace.

_Letting me break you._

He supposes he is, isn’t he? Tony really will get to see each of the Avengers broken for him, under him. Winter is just the only one who will be put back together.

“Break me, daddy,” Winter sighs, and resigns himself to that slow, deep pace that Tony has set, hanging his head and breathing in hitched little gasps.

Tony’s thrust falter only a moment, but enough that Winter feels it and smirks to himself. He is not the only one coming apart. There is a mutualism to their relationship, something so different than the parasitic relationship they both had with Rogers.

It comforts him, as does the burning heat of Tony’s body against his own. That heat that Winter wonders if it might burn Tony up sometimes, and as he feels heated skin sliding against his own, wonders if there might also be something to the way Winter is always just so cold. Cool skin and freezing metal, clashing violently romantic with the fiery burn of the villain fucking slowly into him.

He looks up, and though the images in the glass reflection are not sharp, he can make out the line of Tony’s body working into him, see his own blissed out expression, see the burnt hole in the chairback and when he angles his hips, he see’s his cock head peaking through it as he feels the rough edge cutting into him.

Tony must catch sight of it too, because he doesn’t allow Winter to move away. Keeps him in the perfect position to torture himself with pain and friction.

Pain and pleasure have always come together with Tony, and this is no exception. Only that the pain isn’t coming from a hard, rough fuck with too little prep and slick, but just that hard, jagged friction on his cock driving him absolutely insane.

The moans that Tony pulls from him are high, scratchy, and brutal, a contrast to the slow pace he uses to break Winter into tiny, fragmented pieces like the glistening white of bone matter on the glass, so small, yet so incredibly vital.

Tony changes the angle of his thrusts to hit Winter prostate, something he’s been deliberately missing, Winter would guess and suddenly he is very, very close.

Which makes sense, because he was very, very close when Tony started this however long ago.

“Tony, Tony I-I’m close,” Winter manages to gasp, breathless from the strange mix of gentle pleasure and rough, hard, pain.

“I know,” Tony whispers sweetly.

Winter meets his eye in the glass, “Can I cum, please daddy?” he asks, words slow, tongue heavy in his mouth.

Tony’s thrusts pick up just a little, and Winter isn’t sure the man even notices. Tony’s voice sounds rougher when he answers.

“Yes, cum for me puppy”.

Winter does, with blinding white pleasure and horrible, beautiful pain—sharp and sweet. He splashes white lines across the back of the chair, and thinks insanely, as Tony continues to fuck him, that the forensics unit is in for a wild time.

Tony can’t remain gentle as he too cums, and he bites viciously into Winter’s neck, high and visible and bruisingly hard.

Tony leans over Winter, both of them breathing hard, and Winter feels the curl of Tony’s smile against his skin.

“Good boy,” Tony says and an exhale.

Winter just hums happily, basking in the afterglow, gazing at the reflection of Tony draped over him back, warm, solid, protective, and lazy as a cat.

Eventually Tony does pull out, gentle as can be, and Winter see’s in the glass as Tony spreads Winter’s hole, exposes him there and watches rapt as his cum leaks from the abused opening.

Winter bites his lip, whimpers under the teasing touches, but stays still until Tony’s ready for him to stand and dress again.

“There’s just one more thing I need from her,” Tony says with a mischievous glint when they are both clothed, Tony but for his suit jacket.

“Your impression, please, Ms. Rushman,” he says to the corpse.

Tony takes her bloody, broken and dead hand, and a paper that he takes from his discarded jacket. He presses her thumb to the paper, grinning proudly.

Next, he turns to Winter, leading him back to the bar counter.

“You’re turn,” he says.

Winter doesn’t know what the paper is, but he pulls forth a knife and slices into his flesh index finger and lets the blood well to the surface. He smudges the red over his thumb, and Tony lays out the cardstock paper.

_State of California_

_Certificate of Marriage._

Witness: Natalia Alianovna

“Is this legitimate?” Winter asks, looking into Tony’s eyes as he stamps his thumb onto the paper.

Winter has never cared much for marriage. Growing up as Bucky Barnes, it would never have been possible, and now, he supposes it still isn’t. Not really. Not between two criminals.

Rogers had always been enamoured by the concept though. Had still been enamoured with the idea of god and heaven too. Winter remembers the excitement Rogers’s tone had held when he explained marriage rights, the hopeful look that Winter’s expressionless face had squashed into disappointment as it so often did.

“No,” Tony smirks, doing the same which makes Winter pout at the sight of Tony’s blood. It takes mere seconds for him to heal himself though and this soothes Winter, “But I think Rogers will take the hint,” Tony says.

Especially with all the evidence of the consummation, Winter thinks with a grin.

“Come along now, puppy,” Tony calls, leaving the paper on the counter and walking away, “Company is coming,” he grins.

They stand side by side at the entrance of the mansion gates. Winter can see the approaching group. Rogers, the spider-kid, and another man Winter doesn’t immediately recognize, wearing a cape.

Tony’s not wearing his suit, at least, it appears that he’s not. Winter knows it rests just beneath the skin, just like destruction lies beneath Winter’s own.

The group come to a halt a mere twenty yards away.

Rogers doesn’t even wait for someone to speak. No explanation from Winter. He just throws the shield at Tony.

Winter catches it easily in his metal hand.

He doesn’t throw it back, he just stands at Tony’s side, and sides it on his own arm, angling his body to show off the red markings on his arm above the edge of the shield.

A grin overtakes his face.

“Bucky?” Steve has the audacity to appear confused, like he thought Winter was on his side still even as he stood at Tony’s. Rogers shakes himself out of it though, ignoring Winter in favour of demanding to know where Romanoff is.

“She’s inside, Cap,” Tony says with a grin of his own, “We got started with the party without you,” he laughs.

Rogers face is stormy, “If you hurt her, Stark—” Rogers tries only to be cut off by Tony’s laughter.

“Hurt her? Oh yes, I did,” he says, “But I didn’t kill her, if you’re wondering,” he adds.

There is a miniscule amount of relief in Rogers expression.

“Winter killed this one,” Tony says, looking at Winter and patting him gently on the face, a lingering caress.

The shock is everything that was missing from Romanoff’s face.

Rogers mouth moves on a silent plea, on a silent scream, on a silent something that neither Winter nor Tony truly care to know, other than the expression of anguish, betrayal, confusion, and dread that follows the gaping jaw.

The other two heroes finally catch up, but neither try to engage. Spider-man looks too flabbergasted by the sight of his former mentor unmasked, and the guy in the cape, who Winter _does_ recognize, just looks bored.

He recognises him as the man who bought Winter a drink at the bar all that time ago. The man who looked a bit too much like Stark to pursue at the time. The blue eyed, lean built one. Not the one who was actually Stark, of course.

“Hey kid,” Tony says fondly to Spider-Man.

“Mr. Stark,” Spider-Man says with wavering confidence.

Tony’s smile is bright, but there’s an edge of sadness there too, “How’s Happy?” he asks.

The kid shifts on his feet, taking a defensive pose, “You’d know if you called him every now and again,” he says.

This prompts a chuckle out of Tony.

Rogers is still standing there, looking shell shocked and wrecked and prettier than Winter has ever seen him look.

Winter narrows his eyes at the man in the cape some more.

“Right,” Tony says, clapping his hands, “Introductions,” he grins.

“Winter, darling. Spider-man” he smiles, “This is Doctor Stephen Strange, a friend of mine who owes me a few favours,” he says, “He’s a magician,” he says in mock whisper.

“Sorcerer Supreme, and we are not friends,” the man says completely deadpan.

“Ah, but you do owe me a few favours,” Tony smirks.

The man, Doctor Strange, rolls his eyes.

“We’ve met,” Winter says, and Tony beams at him.

“Wait, so Wade was being serious!” Spider-man says, “You _are_ helping Mr. Stark!”.

That seems to break Rogers even more, his eyes turning pleading towards Winter, teary and desperate.

“No, no, Bucky,” Rogers begs in a cracking voice, confused and heart broken.

Winter just smirks.

“Does that mean you’re evil too?” Spider-man asks Doctor Strange.

“I’m a neutral party,” he says, _neutrally_.

“He’s your new mentor,” Tony says and nods to the other man.

A _portal_ opens. Though Winter does spare is a glance, he has seen weirder and doesn’t let it distract him. Not when Rogers is still looking so lost and broken.

 _Shattered_.

“Run along, kid,” Tony says, “You don’t want to around for this next part,” he says.

“I-I can’t just stand by and—” Spider-Man tries. Winter can tell his heart’s not in it though. Not only does the kid obviously still see Tony as a mentor of sorts, he knows that he will never win if he tried. It would hurt them both to attempt.

“You can’t beat him,” Strange voices, “Let’s go,” he presses.

“See you at the end of the world,” Tony says, singsong before the portal closes and they are left with Rogers.

Tony’s voice seems to snap Rogers back into reality in a way that his two supposed allies leaving through a glowing orange circle did not.

Rogers charges them, and it’s simple for Tony to raise a hand, rapidly enclosed by the gauntlet, and fire a repulsor beam that knocks Rogers back.

“Bucky!” Rogers screams hoarsely.

Tony pulls Winter’s face to his own with a grip on his chin. He presses a deep kiss to his lips, and Winter barely registers Roger’s continued yelling, or the sound of another beam.

“I want to hear you say it, baby,” Tony purrs against Winters lips, “Are you mine?”.

Rogers, struggling to his feet a few yards away, can clearly hear them.

Winter smirks, “Yes, sir,” he purrs right back, “I want to be yours,” he breathes.

Tony kisses him until he moans soft and sweet. When he pulls away, the armour encompasses the man.

He hums, pleased, and wraps his arm around Winter waist.

“Well Cap, it’s time for me to tap out,” Tony says, but he’s looking at Winter still holding Rogers’s livelihood like he’s about to ravish him then and there.

They don’t wait for a response, Tony just lifts them off and into the sky.

They make their great escape, with all the attention either of them had ever wanted from Rogers.

FIVE

YEARS

LATER

“Hey Friday,” Winter greets as he kicks off his shoes in the doorway, “Where’s the boss?”.

“In the garage, sir,” the AI replies cheerfully.

He waves his thanks and makes his way further into their lakeside home. Tony had shown him the property and many others like it, and this is where they have chosen to settle down.

For all that two serial-killing super-villains can settle down.

They own acres of land here, though Winter couldn’t hazard a guess on how many. He just knows there’s no one around for miles. Nothing but trees and water and their little cottage-style home. He explores more and more of it every time he goes out.

It was spring, March to be exact, and yet there was still a healthy amount of snow on the ground here. The air was cool and damp, and Winter looked forward to leeching some of Tony’s heat.

He had preferences in mind on how he wanted to do that.

“You better not be working,” He announces as he makes his way into Tony’s workshop, “I want to ride your cock before we go out for lunch,” he tacks on, giving Tony warning enough that if he is working, he should stop before Winter turns the corner and catches him.

What he see’s instead, brings him up short.

“It is your birthday and all, puppy,” Tony says with a disarming smile.

They don’t usually bring their victims _home_. Usually they kill them near where they intend to leave them, or if they want to do something really elaborate, they use the tower in New York.

Winter hums with a smile, but he doesn’t pay the unconscious and hooded man much attention until he comes around the other side.

Again, he’s brought up short.

“That’s quite the birthday present, Tony,” he breathes.

He feels Tony slide up against his back to loom over him, “You deserve it,” he says softly, like maybe they were looking at a priceless painting, or a shining diamond.

What they have before them is so much more than that.

Positioned against, and presumable strapped to, the victim’s legs, rests the Captain America Shield 2.0. The one given to him in Wakanda, when Winter was given his arm. It’s a replica of the one he had surrendered to Tony nearly a decade ago and has become an art installment in Winter and Tony’s garage these last five years.

The colours have been inverted, where the white was now red, coppery and flaky with the blood painted smoothly on. Where there was red was now white adorned with mistletoe berries, and the blue was covered in the blueish-purple hue of Winter heath, which they grew alongside the house.

Winter doesn’t need to remove the hood to know who is under there, but he still reaches out with a shaking vibranium hand and reveals the battered face of one Steven Grant Rogers.

He squints at them through swollen eyes and Winter feels his face break open with a smile so wide it hurts.

“B-Bucky?”.

“Friday,” he says cheerfully, “You can cancel our lunch reservation, daddy and I have had a change of plans”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!!!!!
> 
> I finally finished this the way it started: drunk.
> 
> Natasha's death was inspired by a [deleted scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nintjt7jsLk) from Iron Man 2 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!!!!!  
> A special thanks to [this lovely human](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutella_28m/pseuds/nutella_28m) for fueling my ego with talks about this fic for literal days while I was struggling to finish it.
> 
> I have [tumblr](http://notdoingsohot.tumblr.com/) now! Yell at me politely to tell me what you want to see next.
> 
> WEAR A MASK PLS OH MY FUCK IT GOES OVER YOUR NOSE JESUS FUCKING SHITBALLS GUYS

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://notdoingsohot.tumblr.com/)


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